


a family that flies together (sticks together)

by aglassfullofhappiness (mehmehs)



Series: a family that flies together (Quidditch AU verse) [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcoholic Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Quidditch, Quidditch World Cup, Team Bonding, Team Feels, Team as Family, as in they're professional Quidditch players and then I've had at the verse bc you know that drill, sports related injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 75,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26384458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehmehs/pseuds/aglassfullofhappiness
Summary: Joe officially meets Nicky when one of his infamous bludgers knocks Joe clean off his broom, breaking two ribs and making him blackout as he falls. He’s forty metres up.A professional Quidditch AU with an auspicious beginning for a certain Beater and Seeker, a muggle-born Chaser finding her feet with(out) the dubious mentorship of a very tired Keeper, and an Italy versus France rivalry that apparently transcends even magic and every single sport.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nile Freeman, Everybody's individual friendships, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: a family that flies together (Quidditch AU verse) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965640
Comments: 505
Kudos: 648





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was _supposed_ to be a short bunch of scenes picked out of a vast verse and timeline, and the sentiment of that is still there, but it just became too much fun. 
> 
> Endless thanks to [ Yon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlouais/pseuds/chlouais), the other half of my braincell, for the impromptu beta work and shop talk while I sunk into a feral writing frenzy. Lots of gratitude to [ yu_gin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yu_gin/pseuds/yu_gin) for the in-depth translation support; all Italian shenanigans are dedicated to you! And lastly, shoutout to the gang over on the TOG Discord for all the ~~yelling~~ brainstorming and ongoing support. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Joe officially meets Nicky when one of his infamous bludgers knocks Joe clean off his broom, breaking two ribs and making him blackout as he falls. He’s forty metres up.

Later, in playback, he’ll appreciate Nicky’s breakneck drop as he dives for Joe, somehow managing to catch him across his own broom just before Joe hits the ground. Joe comes to with Nicky’s face inches from his, calling his name as Nicky gets his chest gear open. The fear is palpable in his face, eyes very green, but his fingers are gentle and steady.

“At least wine and dine me first,” Joe slurs, and Nicky laughs, disbelieving, as the mediwizards arrive and pull him away.

It’s not bad, as first meetings go.

\--

Nile’s describing the stadium’s response to Joe when Booker looks up, and they turn to find Nicky, hovering in the ward’s doorway. He looks younger out of uniform, hair still damp, hands clasped in front of him.

“The man of the hour,” Booker says, and Nicky glares at him. They’d played together before, Joe remembers, before Booker was traded to the Guard several seasons ago. Nile stands, stretching.

“I need a drink,” she says, which is the perfect way to get Booker to follow. As she passes Nicky, she clasps his shoulder, just a tad too hard. “Try not to kill him again before we get back.”

“Nile,” Joe calls from the bed, admonishing, but Nicky clasps his hand over Nile’s for a moment and nods at her, too sincere.

Nicky takes a seat next to Joe as Nile and Booker close the door behind them.

“How are you doing?” he asks, and Joe realises he’s barely ever heard Nicky speak. He’s made quite a name for himself in the League, but he doesn’t do many interviews, doesn’t end up in much news outside of Quidditch. People just know to stay out of his way. Joe had obviously missed that memo today.

“Fine,” Joe says, smiling at him. “Honestly, they healed my ribs on the pitch. This bit’s just precautionary.”

He gestures around the hospital room, then winces as his arm clicks. Nicky’s frown deepens.

“It wasn’t just your ribs,” he says, and Joe shakes his head, and then winces at that too.

“No, but the other stuff wasn’t from you,” he says. “I’ll be fine by morning.”

Nicky hangs his head.

“I’m sorry –” he starts, but Joe puts his hand on Nicky’s arm and says,

“Thank you.”

Nicky’s eyes snap up to stare at him, mouth slightly agape.

“ _Che_?” he says. “Al-Kaysani, I nearly killed you! If I hadn’t managed to –”

“Yes, but you did,” Joe says, squeezing Nicky’s arm. He can feel him trembling under Joe’s fingers. He knows how Nicky’s feeling, even if he rarely faces it himself as a Seeker. There’s a difference between knowing Quidditch is dangerous, versus being the cause of it. “You weren’t aiming for me, I crossed the bludger’s path because I saw the snitch and wasn’t paying attention. You caught me. Very impressive bit of flying, by the way. So, thank you.”

Nicky stares at him for a moment longer before shaking his head.

“It wasn’t your fault for not seeing it,” he says, and Joe nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the game. And after I heal up I’ll be out there doing it all over again, and so will you. And you’ll probably hit me again and I’ll still beat you again. It’s all good.”

Nicky scowls at that, but a little of the tension seeps from his shoulders.

“So wise,” he says drily, and Joe smiles again.

“Well,” he says, “maybe you knocked some sense into me.”

Nicky snorts, and then immediately looking so horrified at himself that Joe has to laugh, even though it hurts his ribs.

\--

They develop quite the rapport after that. After a few more matches and a surprising amount of contact off-pitch, Joe’s glad to find Nicky able to threaten his wellbeing again. 

“If you’re trying to take me out again –” Joe shouts, flat against his broom handle as he corkscrews out of the way, “– you can just ask nicely!”

“ _Succhiamelo_!” Nicky yells after him, to which Joe skids to a halt mid-air and turns with an exaggerated gasp.

“Don’t make an offer you can’t follow through on, darling,” Joe says, because after so long in the sport, he knows what _suck my dick_ sounds like in at least five different languages.

Nicky turns bright red, whether in anger or surprise it doesn’t matter, because Joe’s successfully distracted him enough to allow Nile a clear path to goal.

The crowd erupts as she scores, and Nicky curses, glaring at Joe. Joe blows him a kiss. Nicky flips him the bird, but before they both fly off, Joe catches him smiling.

~*~

“C’mon, old man,” Nile shouts, cackling. “You can do better than that!”

Booker curses, returning to his spot in front of the centre goalpost. He _is_ getting a bit old for this shit, as Andy keeps reminding him. But despite Nile’s taunts, practicing against her reminds him why he still loves it, season after season. Joe’s hovering to the side, ostensibly overseeing Nile’s humiliation of Booker, but he’s distracted, not joining in on the roasting like he usually would. Booker’s pretty sure he knows why.

As if on cue, a _crack_ from ground level signals someone apparating in. Joe’s face lights up as he sees who it is, and he tilts his broom down immediately, barely getting off it in time to hug the incoming figure.

“Is that Nicky?” Nile says, squinting down at them. Nicky’s hugging Joe back, and the embrace is going on for a strangely long time.

“Who else?” Booker says, rolling his eyes.

“Surely this is like, cross-team fraternisation, or something,” Nile says, tossing the quaffle between her hands. “He sure as hell should not be seeing us practice.”

“Don’t think he’s too concerned about you, rookie,” Booker says, and then rolls to catch the shot Nile throws at him in retaliation.

“Think Nicky’s still guilty over nearly killing Joe?” she asks as he throws the quaffle back to her.

“I mean, he’ll probably always feel like that a bit,” Booker says. “If he didn’t, he shouldn’t be playing.”

“Mm,” Nile says, looking down again. “Don’t think he personally checks in with everyone he hurts for months and months afterwards though.”

Booker laughs.

“Probably not,” he says. “Come on, let’s go say hi before they forget we’re here and just start making out on the pitch.”

“They’re not like that,” Nile says, and then throws the quaffle straight at Booker’s face at the expression he gives her. “Well, not yet, anyway. I’m just saying, let’s not assume before they figure themselves out.”

“Alright, killjoy,” Booker says, and then perks up. “Want to join the bet Andy and I have on them though?”

~*~

As Head Coach, Andy had welcomed Nile by whacking several bludgers straight at her, and yelling for her to score through them. Nobody needs reminding about Andy’s heyday as Quidditch’s greatest Beater, but she shows the entire team up at every position, bitching constantly about rule changes that have outlawed some of her more infamous moves.

They don’t make playoffs in Nile’s first season with the team, which feels personal somehow, even though she knows that’s stupid. It’s only her second season in the League, it’s a team effort, sometimes games just don’t go their way…

She trains with Andy during the summer offseason, maybe a little too hard, but Booker tends to also be there, reminding them to relax with his sunglasses on and cocktail in hand. One afternoon, he falls asleep while Andy’s running Nile through conditioning drills. Nile’s catching her breath on the grass when she sees Andy looking across at Booker, a strange expression on her face.

“What is it?” she asks quietly, and catches the water bottle Andy throws at her.

“Trades,” Andy says shortly, and Nile sits up, staring at her.

“No,” she says, stomach sinking even though she knows this is how it goes. She’d been traded herself after her first season, hadn’t she? Booker though – Booker is so key to their team, to _her_. He’d been her first friend on the team, her personal Keeper for every extra practice, a sage presence with a side of dad humour. He’d gotten her through the season, mentoring her in his own funny way, and she didn’t want to imagine next season without him.

“It’s not up to me,” Andy says, and her lips thin. “And Booker wants…his career’s winding up, Nile. You know how it is for Keepers. Copley’s sniffing after him.”

“Oh hell no,” Nile says, and forcibly drags her voice down. “You know what that team’s doing under Merrick’s ownership. They’ll run him dry for experience and then discard him. He can’t do that!”

“I think he knows,” Andy says, sitting heavily down next to Nile. She tilts her head back, eyes closed, and for the first time, Nile thinks she looks old. “But they’ll give him plenty of play time, and that’s an opportunity for him to end well.”

“That’s an opportunity for him to get hurt,” Nile says, furious. “He’ll fuck himself up!”

“You tell him that,” Andy says, eyes still closed. Nile curses.

“Any other bombshells you want to impart?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“Mm,” Andy says, as if she’s not tapped into all the League’s gossip. “Well. We might get Nicky.”

Nile stares at her, and then groans.

“Joe will be _insufferable_ ,” she says, and Andy smiles at that.

“I think it’ll work to our advantage,” she says, and Nile grudgingly agrees. No matter what weird courtship those two are still dancing their way through, they’re both insanely good players. And they did need a new Beater.

“We’ll be alright, Nile,” Andy says, and then kicks at Nile with her booted foot. “Alright, round three. Let’s go.”

\--

Joe does not share Andy’s outlook.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he says, bursting into the locker room as Booker’s clearing out the last of his gear. Nile’s there, feeling like she’s overseeing a funeral, and she sits back as Booker turns to Joe and they both start yelling in French, two different accents clashing over the same point. Nicky’s at the door, on guard. He’s holding a new bag with the Guard’s logo on it, and Nile gives him a small smile. She’s glad to have him; he’ll get his welcome soon enough. He gives her his almost-smile back, before turning his attention back to Joe and Booker, who look dangerously close to blows.

“Yusuf, _s'il-te-plaît_ –” Booker says, voice breaking, and Joe’s hands come up, making Nile tense, but then Joe’s grabbing Booker and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug, knuckles pale against Booker’s shirt. They’re both crying a little.

“I fucking hate you,” Joe says, pressing a kiss against Booker’s hair. Booker laughs wetly against Joe’s shoulder, sounding like he agrees too much. They stay in that locker room for a long time.

~*~

Four days before Booker’s trade drops, Joe is startled by an early-morning patronus. He drops his paint palette, because there’s a giant mare stamping its hooves in his living room, but then it opens its shining mouth and says in Nicky’s voice _it’s happened_ , and before Joe can fully register what that means, there’s a _crack_ outside his window and a knock at his front door.

“Do you mean –” Joe says as he yanks open the door, and Nicky says,

 _“Sì, sì –_ ” and wraps his arms around Joe, sending them both staggering back into the house. Nicky’s gone from the quiet opponent that had threatened and saved Joe’s life in a matter of seconds, to somehow becoming a good friend over the last season. At first, Joe’s convinced Nicky’s acting on guilt, but after several months of letters, matches, and getting ribbed for meeting up whenever they’re in the same city, it’s undoubtedly something else. Nicky still aims bludgers at him; Joe still blows him kisses whenever he misses, which riles up their fans like nothing else. He’s gotten Nicky angry enough to throw his bat at the ground several times – not that anyone would guess Nicky capable of that, if they hadn’t seen him play. Off-pitch, Nicky shies away from cameras but always takes time for fans, especially kids, and in private, Nicky has a sardonic edge that constantly catches Joe off-guard, and a smile Joe is always chasing.

Nicky shows up with Joe’s favourite cheat meal the day after the Guard is swept from playoff contention; Joe goes for a punishing half-marathon with Nicky after his team doesn’t make it, either. They both bitch their way into the offseason, and end up spending much of it together. Joe knows Nicky’s looking for a trade; he deserves better than what his current franchise has given him. Joe also knows Andy’s arguing after new Beaters, but he’s hesitant to touch the politics even though he’s itching to have Nicky on their team. Nicky is a shining example of how the Beater position is as technically difficult and intellectually demanding as the rest of the team – it just also requires incredible strength, which Joe sees in Nicky’s arms and back every time they work out together, usually hidden under his loose shirts and jackets.

He’d cracked a couple weeks into offseason, at dinner with Andy and Booker. He waits until Booker’s safely gone, Andy having had to floo him home as he was too drunk to apparate. Andy’s back several moments later, cursing at the ash on her clothes. Joe makes a face at her as she sits back down, and she sighs.

“He’s not talking to me,” she says, because she already knows this conversation. “And they won’t want to keep him, Joe, not after last season.”

“He had a bad run –”Joe says, but Andy shakes her head.

“He had a bad season and you know it.” Andy says. “We can’t just keep him because we love him.”

Joe bites at the inside of his cheek.

“What about the rest of the team?” he asks, cautious. Andy raises an eyebrow at him.

“What about them?” she says, and Joe clears his throat.

“Who are we getting as Beaters?” he asks, and she smirks at him.

“You know I can’t say yet,” she says, and Joe rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “but who are we looking at?”

“You got someone in mind?” Andy asks, and she’s definitely just fucking with him now.

“Andy,” Joe says, and crosses his arms. “He’s undeniably the best free agent right now, we would be stupid not to –”

Andy laughs, and Joe glares at her, feeling very young.

“I know,” she says. “But there’s a lot of teams gunning for him, Joe. We’ll have to see.” She nudges him under the table. “You’re rather keen, aren’t you? You normally stay out of trade talks.”

“Well it’s not like we get much say,” Joe says. “But you know, I’m just saying. It would be stupid not to have him.”

“Sure,” Andy says, still looking far too amused. “Just like how it would be stupid to work with someone you have a massive hard-on for.”

Joe stares at her for a long moment before whacking at her shoulder.

“Firstly,” he says as she catches his wrist, “I appreciate you saying _massive_ , but secondly, fuck you I do _not_. This is a purely professional opinion –”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Andy says, patting his hand as condescendingly as she can. “Well, let’s see how that _professional opinion_ holds up if he comes, alright?”

Joe resists the urge to fling dessert at her face, but only because she would annihilate him.

But now here they are, several weeks later, Nicky laughing in Joe’s hallway with their arms still around each other, officially on the same team.

“Shit, that’s amazing!” Joe says, stepping back to grin at Nicky, one hand against his neck, thumb at his jaw. He stops when he realises there’s green paint on Nicky’s skin.

“Oh no, there’s –” he says, trying to wipe it off and only getting more on Nicky’s cheek. Nicky laughs and wipes at it, before taking Joe’s hands and turning them over.

“You paint?” he asks, looking around, and Joe realises belatedly that his easel is visible from his living room, clearly displaying –

“Is that…me?” Nicky asks, stepping past him for a closer look. Joe fights the urge to run out his own door.

“Um, no?” he says, and he doesn’t sound convincing at all. “It’s just – a portrait I had in my head, I kind of draw whatever, you know…”

Nicky turns back to him, head tilted, and it’s such an identical profile to the figure on Joe’s canvas that he doesn’t know why he bothered. He’s gripped, suddenly, by the fear that Nicky will find this too strange, and immediately un-sign with the team. Ah, God, Andy had been _right_ –

Instead, Nicky smiles and says,

“Well, it’s very good.”

Joe tries not to smile too hard.

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s still got awhile to go.”

“I guess I’ll be finding more hidden talents of yours, this season?” Nicky says, and he almost looks like he’s smirking.

“Maybe,” Joe says, trying to retain a scrap of his dignity. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“I’ll bet,” Nicky says, and Joe can hear Andy cackling in the back of his mind. It’s going to be an interesting season. 

~*~

Booker leaves a hole in the team, but they have to keep moving. There’s a palpable hunger in the locker room; the veterans are tired of _almost_ making it, the newbies are anxious to make their mark. Everyone sits up when Andy slams a chair down at the head of the room and says,

“You know what? I’m sick of losing when it motherfucking matters.”

She makes eye contact with every single one of them, and the room’s posture shoots up by several centimetres.

“I know we have what it takes. I know we do. And I will drag us kicking and screaming there if I have to, or we can all get our asses into gear and do it with some semblance of grace. Are you with me?”

The team sound their affirmation, and as he stamps his boots against the floor with everyone else, Joe looks across at Nicky, who’s staring right back at him.

 _This year_ , Joe thinks, and sees his thoughts reflected back at him, no words needed. _This year’s our year._

~*~

“You’re doing great, Nile, I’m serious,” Booker’s head says from her hotel fireplace. Nile sighs from where she’s sitting on the carpet, rolling out her hamstrings. Magic-based communications have come a long way since Nile found out she was a witch, but Booker was old-school – a bad habit probably picked up from Andy.

“Thanks, I just…” she sighs again, flipping over to look at him. “We miss you. I miss you. It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s better,” Booker says, and tries to smile. “You’re all doing better without me.”

“That’s _not true_ ,” Nile says, although she knows what he’s referring to. “I don’t mean the numbers, or the wins, I mean the team. You mentored so many of the rookies, Booker. Joe’s sad when he thinks no one’s looking. Andy keeps making jokes we don’t get and looking over to where you’d normally be. For real, Booker, we miss you. Come visit when you can, okay?”

“Considering Joe nearly knocked me off my broom during our last game, that might not be the best idea?” Booker says, and Nile shakes her head.

“The snitch was by the goalpost, c’mon,” she says. “Don’t make excuses. Come visit.”

“I’ll…try,” Booker says and rolls his eyes at Nile’s glare. “Alright. I will. It’ll be hard to clear with the team, but –”

“You’re allowed to see people outside your own team,” Nile says, exasperated. “Think about Joe and Nicky all last season!”

Booker looks pained, fire highlighting the shadows across his face.

“I’ll try,” he says again, and then glances at something on his end. “Look, Nile, I have to go. Speak again soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Nile says, and then there’s nothing but the flames, crackling against the wood. She feels horribly alone, all of a sudden, even though she can hear her teammates in the hallway outside. It’s not a new feeling, but as she stares into the empty fire, tears prick at her eyes, hot and stinging. She misses her family, not just in distance but in the worlds they live in: her mother, so proud of her but never able to see her play, her brother, starting muggle university without her. She loves being a witch, she _adores_ Quidditch, but she also – she misses her family. And Booker had been the closest thing she’d had here, this side of the Atlantic.

There’s a soft knock at her door, and she wipes her eyes hastily before calling out,

“Come in!”

It’s Nicky, two mugs floating in front of him. He stops when he sees her face, and then quickly closes the door before directing the mugs onto the coffee table and tucking his wand away.

“What’s up?” he asks, lowering himself onto the carpet next to her. At her expression, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and she puts her head against him, feeling the tears well up again.

“Just talked to Booker,” she says, and when she blinks the tears fall, wet against Nicky’s shirt. She moves to stop it, but he just squeezes her tight, hand running soothingly against her arm.

“How is he?” he asks, voice soft.

“Not good,” Nile says, and sniffs. “He needs us. And I miss him.”

“I know,” Nicky says, cheek against her hair. He’s a solid presence against her, and she takes several deep breaths. “Joe misses him too.”

“He should probably stop going after him every time we play, then,” Nile says, and they both laugh softly. As if summoned, there’s another knock at the door.

“I heard this was where the illegal hot chocolates were happening,” Joe says, entering with his own mug. He does the same double-take Nicky had at the sight them on the carpet, but joins them quickly, hugging Nile from her other side.

“This should be a mandatory thing,” he says, curls tickling Nile’s face. “We should invite Andy.”

“She’d take away our drinks,” Nicky says, and moves to pass Nile her mug. It’s sinfully rich and sweet; definitely not nutritionist approved. They both stay close to Nile as they drink, legs pressed against each other.

“You know you can talk to us, right?” Joe says, and his face is so sincere Nile feels she might cry again. “I know we’re not –” he breaks off, grimacing. “I know Booker helped you a lot last year. And he’s obviously still there. But just know – we’re here for you too. This team. You carry so much for us on and off the pitch. We’d do that for you too, if you let us. If you wanted.”

“Thanks, Joe,” she says, and leans her head against him. She can feel him looking over at Nicky, doesn’t miss the way Joe says _we._ At this point, the whole team is in on Andy and Booker’s bet on them, but they’re quiet about it. It’s a risky move, getting with a teammate – nobody dares mention the legend of Andy and Quynh, but they know they’re all thinking it. Nobody wants to mess with the winning streak they’re having so far this season, either, and if that means letting Joe and Nicky dance around each other, then so be it. Nile might not trust them to get their emotional shit together, but she does trust them with her life; has to, sometimes literally. She could really lean on them a bit more.

“What else is on your mind?” Nicky asks gently. Nile breathes out and says,

“I might be picked for World’s this year.”

“Oh, damn,” Joe says, sitting up. “That’s _amazing_ , Nile! I didn’t go until my what, seventh year as a pro? Going in your third year would be insane, Nile. That’s your hard work paying off right there.”

“I mean, Joe’s just not very good, but he’s right, that would be amazing for you, Nile,” Nicky says, and Nile laughs as Joe pouts.

“I’ve wanted to play in the World Cup since I first found out about Quidditch,” she says, and they both nod. “But – I’d be playing for America, obviously, and…” she sighs, running a hand over her face. “A lot of them still haven’t forgiven me for signing here. I know that’s personal drama, and I should just go and get the experience and it’s only a short time but –” she stops, remembering the faces of her teammates in Juniors when she’d gotten the offer from the European Quidditch League. They’d promised to go pro together, they’d _promised_ –

“Everyone knows the EQL is the better League,” Nicky says, and there’s no heat to his words, only a simple statement of fact. “It wouldn’t have made sense for you not to accept. And you’ve done exceptionally well. They should understand that.”

Nile laughs, a little flat.

“Unfortunately, Nicky,” she says, “people aren’t always the most logical.”

“Amen to that,” Joe says. “And it’s completely understandable you feel conflicted about it. But one step at a time, yeah? See if you get in, then we deal with the Americans. Either way, you know you’re topping your cohort. That needs to be celebrated.”

He clinks his mug with Nile’s, who laughs, and keeps laughing when Joe starts telling her the pranks he used to pull as a rookie, and some truly scandalous stories about Andy she’s never heard before. Nicky listens next to her, interjecting whenever Joe says anything too outrageous, arm solid against Nile’s back. They talk until Nile starts yawning, which sets them all off, because they’re all athletes with grandparent sleep schedules. Joe leaves first, needing to catch Andy about something, and Nicky helps tidy the room as Nile gets ready for bed.

“Thank you,” Nile says, settling under the covers. “That was….well-timed. And much appreciated.”

“Anytime, as Joe said,” Nicky says, smiling at her. He’s about to leave when Nile says,

“Hey, Nicky?”

“Yes?” Nicky says, turning back to her.

“You know the whole team would support you two, right?” she says, and Nicky looks surprised for a second before shifting into wariness.

“You mean…” he says, as if Nile could possibly mean anything else.

“Yes, Nicky,” Nile says, trying not to roll her eyes. “You and Joe. And whatever you two have going on.”

She holds up her hands as Nicky’s face contorts, as if he’s unsure of which angle to go for.

“It’s fine,” she says, smiling at him. “It’s whatever you want it to be. I’m just saying – if you two wanted to – we would all support you. And you two would make it work. It’s do-able.”

Nicky looks down, and for a moment he seems younger than Nile, so much strength and yet so unsure of himself.

“I don’t know if Joe –” he says, and then cuts himself off. Nile waits, patient. Nicky shakes his head, looking back up at her. “Thank you, Nile. I’ll think about it.”

“Alright,” she says, and reaches to extinguish the lights. “Goodnight, Nicky.”

“ _Buonanotte_ , Nile.”

~*~

Nicky doesn’t mean to be so obvious – he just – they can’t help it, after a while.

They start off cautious, because a rivalry on-pitch and a friendship off-pitch does not necessarily make good teammates, but Nicky quickly discovers it’s a lot more satisfying pelting bludgers away from Joe, rather than at him, and watching Joe play is a lot funner when he’s doing it for you, rather than against you.

It also takes years off Nicky’s life.

“That was fucking _unnecessary_ ,” Nicky says as the whistle blows at the end of their fourth match together. It had been a long one, both teams struggling to score, still settling into new rosters and strategies. Joe had finally ended it – by vaulting off his broom as the snitch flitted between goalposts, and catching it one-handed as he hung off the metal hoop. Nicky had experienced the stab of nausea as his heart jumped into his throat and his stomach dropped simultaneously, and he did not appreciate it.

“It worked,” Joe says, shrugging even though his one-handed hold must be hurting his arm. “Mind passing my broom?”

“I should let you hang,” Nicky fumes, nudging Joe’s broom back to him. Joe hooks his legs around the handle and grins at Nicky as the rest of the team descends on them.

“You like me too much for that,” Joe says, winking, and even then, he’d been too correct.

There’s already too much gossip about them for Nicky’s liking. His turnaround from bludgeoning Joe to saving him makes every highlight reel of last season, which baffles Nicky – hadn’t he done the most logical thing? Sure, they had wizards on the ground, meant to save these situations, but no one had prepared Nicky for the ice-cold horror at seeing someone collide with his shot and drop like that. There had been no thought involved – only the gut-wrenching certainty that he’d be too late, and witness a death he’d both caused and been too slow to stop. He remembers taking both hands off his broom to grab Joe in his arms, toes skidding over the grass. He’d probably fucked up Joe’s ribs even more that way, and added some serious whiplash, but better that than a human pancake on the pitch. 

Joe’s reaction upon waking, and afterwards in hospital, had stunned Nicky. It’s the thing that initially draws him to Joe, his need to test the sincerity of Joe’s forgiveness. He quickly realises that everything Joe does is sincere, even when he’s on camera, and then they’re just friends who’d had a dramatic beginning. Someone gets a photo of them in Paris, both laughing uproariously, and it snowballs into some narrative about their rival-ship. It makes no sense to Nicky, but apparently gives the press an excuse to capture every heated interaction during matches, and contrast it with their friendship off-pitch. It’s not Nicky’s fault he has to throw Joe off his game, and definitely not Nicky’s fault that Joe reacts so ridiculously, fuelling the gossip.

So when he becomes a free agent, he tries not to be too hopeful. They’d joked about it plenty, how they’d be if they played together, but that’d just been, well, wishful thinking. When the opportunity actually presents itself, Nicky can’t be sure Joe will feel the same way. But the Guard makes too much sense – they need a new Beater, and despite not making playoffs last season, they have a growing core of players that bode well. He’d also be very stupid not to train under Andromache when he has the chance. He doesn’t say too much while negotiations happen, maintaining professionalism, but the minute he signs, he can’t hide it a moment longer. Joe’s reaction had more than allayed Nicky’s fears.

It’s not until the season starts that Nicky realises he has new things to worry about.

Joe has a reputation for being loud, showy and brash, in the same way people had tried to call Andy monstrous, cold and bitchy. Nicky won’t deny that as an opponent, Joe’s trash-talking and death-defying manoeuvres make his face very punch-able, but that’s mainly because he’s winning. There’s some arrogance there, a love for antagonising opponents as he flies circles around them, but that’s not uncommon for Quidditch. Sometimes you need a little hubris to risk your life on the regular, and it’s hardly Joe’s fault he’s so damn watchable.

But the combination of crazy tricks and combative play means Nicky’s worrying about him _all the time_ , because aside from Joe being a risk unto himself, _everybody goes after Joe_. Whenever he’d played against the Guard, someone would mention taking out al-Kaysani, but it’s normal to hate Seekers the most, after all. It’s not until Nicky’s playing with Joe that he realises how serious the threats are, and how constant. A good portion of Joe’s antics are from avoiding hits and fouls, while also running interference for their Chasers, while _also_ tracking the snitch.

Nicky mentions this to Andy three months in, when Joe’s in the medical bay _again_ post-game. He’d taken a bludger to the knee, which is always a risky thing to reset, and Nicky’s furious he hadn’t blocked it in time.

“Keane should get a suspension,” Nicky bites out, yanking his arm guards off. Andy’s watching him, impassive. “Motherfucker was fouling us all game and the ref _never_ called it, and then he goes after Joe like a hound –”

“That part wasn’t illegal,” Andy says, and Nicky makes a noise he barely recognises, raw in his throat.

“Joe’s doing too much and people are mauling him,” he says. He feels like he’s burning under his uniform. “We need to do something about it.”

“Alright,” Andy says in her no bullshit tone, and Nicky exhales, pushing his hair back from his face. Andy slugs his arm – the closest she’ll get to a reassuring squeeze. “I’m going to go find Copley. Go see Joe. I’m sure he’s asking for you.”

Nicky finds Booker in the medical bay too, having his shoulder checked. Nile had hit him with a particularly savage shot after Joe had gone down. Booker had looked a little too proud.

“Your Beater is a piece of shit, Booker,” Nicky says, and Booker holds up his free hand, wincing.

“Look, Keane is…” he says, and then sighs heavily. “I know.”

“I’ve had worse,” Joe says brightly. Celeste, the team’s healer, pauses from where she’s muttering over his leg and coughs pointedly. Booker laughs.

“You,” Nicky says, sitting down next to Joe, “need to stop goading Beaters.”

“Worked on you, didn’t it?” Joe says, grinning, and Nicky rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious, Joe,” he says, and reaches out to tilt Joe’s head, examining the bruise along his cheekbone. Another close call Nicky will lose sleep over. Joe lets him, watching Nicky out of the corner his eye.

“So only you can hurt him, huh, Nicky?” Booker says, and Nicky’s fingers tighten on Joe’s jaw before he lets go.

“Things are different now,” Nicky says, and he keeps his voice calm. “You can tell your team, Booker. Next person to come after Joe like that will wish they’d never stepped onto the pitch.”

When he looks back at Joe, Joe is staring at him with wide eyes. Booker sighs like he doesn’t have the energy to laugh.

“Alright,” he says, but Nicky barely hears him. Joe’s hand is warm around his wrist.

~*~

By the time the League’s pausing for World’s in January, the Guard is leading their conference and Nicky has successfully established that whoever fucks with Joe, fucks with him. He thinks any good Beater would do this, for any player on their team, and he does. It’s just that more people go after Joe, and thus, Nicky goes after more people for him. There’s only so much Andy can do on the ground; once they’re in the air, Nicky takes things into his own hands.

He knows what his strengths are. He’s not the strongest Beater, per se, but his precision is second to none. Quidditch nerds love talking about it: his ability to factor in wind speed, distance, altitude and swing before making a shot, his near-perfect hit percentage. It’s funny, actually – most of his misses last season had been Joe.

They’re at some gala in December – something Nicky would usually avoid, but it’s a fundraiser – when Nicky notices how players are giving him a wide berth until he initiates conversation or Joe drags him into one. He doesn’t mind, but it’s different enough that he comments on it to Nile. She looks at him for a moment before laughing.

“Nicky, you’re aware you’ve threatened most of their lives?” she says.

“I have not,” he says primly, before catching her raised eyebrow. “I aim to deter, not to harm,” he says, which is _technically_ true. “And besides, they threatened our team. It’s part of the game.”

“That’s sweet,” Nile says, “and you do a great job. But when it comes to Joe…” she looks across at where Joe is holding court at one of the tables, surrounded by laughing guests. “You go a little…” she tilts her head. “Feral.”

“Rude,” Nicky says, but there’s no heat to it. He’d meant what he said to Booker and he stands by his word. There’s growing commentary on the _Genovese-Kaysani_ _playbook_ , which consists of Nicky aggressively clearing Joe’s path as he dives for the snitch, not heeding anything else because he’s trusting Nicky to keep him safe.

Joe looks across at them like he senses them watching, and gives them both a jaunty wave. Nicky feels Nile looking between them, but she says nothing, just finishes her drink and gets a refill. Nicky wishes he had more of her patience, and definitely more of her wisdom. Maybe then, he’d know what to do about the warmth that Joe ignites in him, whenever they play or practice or decompress together, which is almost all of the time now. That’s the risk they run, Nicky knows. Players spend most of the year cooped up together, in ridiculously close and adrenaline-fueled situations. It always gets a little weird, from an outsider’s perspective.

But Nicky’s used to the closeness of teammates, and this is not it. This is something else entirely; something he doesn’t know how to touch. All he knows is that if he does, he won’t be able to stop, and if it ends badly, he’s not sure how they’ll go on. Nicky will risk his life with airborne projectiles, but he won’t risk his friendship with Joe.

At the same time, he’s not sure how long they can go on like this either. He catches himself watching Joe, too much: how regal he looks in uniform, thighs gripping his broom; the sleek lines of him as he gets undressed, shameless in the locker room as they all are, walking around half-naked and half in pads, joking around with the team. He catches Nicky, several times, and Nicky keeps his gaze, steady as he can, because he’s sure he’s caught Joe doing the same. Joe’s taken to winking at him whenever they lock eyes, and it makes Nicky’s sanity slip a little every time.

He prays the World Cup will at least distract him. Joe may be the artist, but Nicky thinks he’d be able to detail every muscle in Joe’s torso by this point, the smooth flex of his delts as he throws quaffles with the Chasers, the way his face relaxes when he falls asleep on Nicky’s couch. Whenever Joe touches him – which seems to be _all the time_ – it burns through his uniform, even with the padding. When they’re doing strength and conditioning training together, Joe has a terrible habit of taking his shirt off, and Nicky can almost feel his brain short-circuiting.

“You going to be okay without me for a while?” Joe asks him during their last indoor session together before they split. There’s really no excuse for him to be so shirtless and tanned; it’s winter, for fuck’s sake. They’re both flat on the ground, winded and sweaty. Nicky scoffs and stares up at the ceiling, trying to regulate his breathing.

“I think you’ll be in more trouble without _me_ ,” he says, and Joe laughs, propping himself up on one arm. He smiles down at Nicky, and he is so beautiful Nicky loses his breath again.

“I’ll miss you,” Joe says, too sincere, and any typical responses of _as if, it’s only a few weeks_ dies in Nicky’s throat. Before he can form new words, the arena door slams open and a gaggle of newbies trundle through, loud and raucous. Many of the more experienced players are about to leave for World’s, and it does feel like letting the kids run wild. Nile trails them, bag in hand.

“I don’t even want to know,” she says, catching sight of them. Joe grins at her, still lying next to Nicky.

“When’s your portkey?” he asks, and Nile groans.

“Seven tomorrow morning,” she says. “You?”

“Ten,” Joe says, and twists out of the way of Nile’s kick. Unfortunately, this means rolling half on top of Nicky, who flails and grabs him on instinct, before his brain registers all the bare skin against his and promptly loses it.

“Save me!” Joe cries dramatically as Nile laughs, until Nicky makes eye contact with her and obviously looks panicked enough for her to take pity and cease her attack. Joe, however, does not move away, just remains pressed against Nicky, curls tickling his face. Nicky doesn’t know if this is more of a joke from heaven or hell, but he’d like to die either way.

“How are you feeling about going home, Nile?” he asks, trying to focus, and Joe stops squirming, growing serious with him. Nile sighs, dropping down next to them.

“I’ll be able to see my family,” she says, and Nicky smiles at her encouragingly. “But the team – it’ll be awkward. I’m already too young, abandoned the American League, blah blah blah…”

“You know that’s bullshit,” Nicky says. Joe hums in agreement before saying,

“Also, you can still message us. Discretely. You’re not Booker, after all.”

“Huh?” Nile asks, face scrunching. “Guys, it’s been half a season, surely –”

“Oh, it’s not because of the _trade_ ,” Joe says, starting to laugh. “It’s because of this one.”

He pokes at Nicky, who glares at him.

“What’s wrong with Booker at World’s?” Nile asks, frowning. Nicky feels his lip curl.

“He’s _French_ ,” he says.

\--

“So you and Nicky just don’t talk until after the World Cup’s over?” Nile asks, trying to sharpen Booker’s image with her wand. She’s home in Chicago, with a few days to breathe before Team USA training begins. There’s no fireplace here to use, so Booker’s having to get with the times with her. They’re basically using the magical equivalent of FaceTime; Nile can’t believe magical image quality is worse than Wi-Fi. 

“Yeah, we set dates,” Booker says. He looks happier than he’s been in a while, and some of his French accent is creeping back in. “We didn’t the first year we all went to World’s and it was…risky for the friendship. Not to mention we were teammates then, in the League.”

“Sheesh,” Nile says. Booker rolls his eyes.

“Honestly, Nicky gives me shit about muggle football and he doesn’t even understand it,” he says. “When I was still in school – I know, centuries ago, shut up – some muggle-borns showed us the FIFA World Cup final. Ended in a brawl even though half the wizards had no idea what was going on.”

Nile laughs. That’s easily imaginable. Booker smiles at her.

“Nicky’s like that,” he says, conspiratorially. “He’s going to come back a hundred times more Italian, it’ll be horrific, you’ll see.”

“Can’t wait,” Nile says. “I think it’ll be a good break for him, to be honest. He and Joe are losing their minds.”

“I’m glad I’m not there for that,” Booker says, shuddering. Nile hums in agreement, adjusting her legs under the table. The desk in her bedroom is too small for her to sit comfortably at, but there’s no point getting a new one. There’s hardly a point keeping her old bedroom as it is, but she knows neither her mother nor brother will change it. It’s become a bit of a time capsule from before she left; her childhood books still on the shelf, even some of her terrible first drawings. Something she’s forgotten catches her eye every time she looks around, and it twists at her.

“Nile?” Booker asks softly, and she looks back at him, smiling apologetically.

“It’s weird, being home,” she says quietly, because the walls are thin and she couldn’t bear for her family to hear. “I’ve missed so much.”

“It’s all there waiting for you,” Booker says. “And even when we can’t say too much, they can tell us everything.”

“Yeah,” Nile says, leaning her head against her hand. “Yeah, I suppose so.” She looks at him, the kindness in every line of his face. “What about you? How’s Paris?”

Booker looks sideways, and Nile can see a sliver of muggle Paris in the corner of the image, out his window.

“Same same,” Booker says, and Nile snorts, but doesn’t push. At least she has family to come back to; family that wants and loves to see her. She knows Booker’s sitting in a house he can’t bear to sell, full of empty rooms for a family that is either gone, or worse. One time, last season, Booker had gotten drunk – well, more drunk than usual – and told her about his wife Corinne. _An astrophysicist,_ he’d said, smiling despite the tears in his eyes. _More magical than any fucking wizard out there, Nile._

They’d had three sons: none of them had been wizards. All of them had blamed Booker when he couldn’t save their mother, wouldn’t believe that even magic could not cure her. He’d never brought it up again; Nile’s not even sure he remembers telling her. But he always knows what to say when it comes to her family, of the balancing act between magic and muggles and loving both, even though it must hurt him to talk about.

“Go on,” Booker says, like he knows what she’s thinking. “Make the most of the weekend. Training camp is going to be a real bitch.”

“Gee, thanks,” Nile says, but she knows what he means.

“Don’t let them push you around,” Booker says. “The stakes will feel higher, but we’ve got the League to go back to. You have to pace yourself.”

“Got it,” Nile says, nodding. “You good on our agreement?”

“I don’t remember agreeing to anything,” Booker says, and then holds his hands up at her glare. “ _Oui, oui_ , no drinking during training camp, alright.”

“Good man,” Nile says, and he salutes before disappearing.

There’s a knock on her door, and Tiberius pokes his head in. He’s got his laptop in one hand, phone in the other.

“Yo,” he says, grinning at her. “I think the magic’s messing with our internet.”

“Sorry,” Nile says, but he shakes his head.

“All good,” he says. “You ready for my presentation?”

“Your – oh my God, Ty, I thought you were kidding about that,” Nile says, following him to the living room.

“Um, would I _ever_ joke about your education?” Tiberius says, casting his laptop to the TV. The PowerPoint title slide reads _Muggles and Memes: What you missed since last time, you magical boomer._

“I am _not_ –” Nile says, hands on her hips, and Tiberius raises his eyebrows.

“You still use wired headphones,” he says. “And not because magic interferes with Bluetooth, we tested that.”

They both glare at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. Nile holds out her arms.

“Come here, Ty,” she says, and he looks at her like she’s gone mad but does so anyway. She hugs him, crushingly tight, and he hugs her back.

“I love you,” she says, because she doesn’t get to say it enough, and his voice is as thick as hers when he says,

“Love you too, Nile.” 

~*~

Because it’s that kind of year, the Quidditch World Cup Final comes down to Italy versus France.

“Got your wand ready?” Joe asks when Nile shuffles into the seat next to him, unbuttoning her jacket. It’s clear outside but freezing cold; she’s glad the players’ box is magically sheltered, but from the atmosphere inside the room, it’s about to get very heated.

“Always,” she says, patting her pocket. Tunisia had been knocked out of the quarter finals, which is further than they’ve ever gotten, and Joe’s good-natured about it. USA had lost to France in the semis. Nile’s less good-natured about that; it had meant a lot of muttering about her inability to play against Booker as a former teammate. But it’ll all be over soon – _if_ the two teams today don’t kill each other.

They stare out at the pitch, pristine white with snow, the stands filling rapidly with opposing colours. The player’s box is in neutral tones, but Nile knows it won’t last.

“Who’re you supporting?” she asks, as if she needs to. Joe glances around them before muttering out of the side of his mouth,

“You _know_ who.”

“Geez, break Booker’s heart even more why don’t you,” Nile says, and Joe knocks her shoulder, rolling his eyes. Nile lowers her voice and says, “you and Nicky been having clandestine visits in the night? That why he looks so tired?”

“Does he?” Joe asks, concerned, before his brain catches up to the rest of her sentence and he looks horrified. “ _No_ , Nile,” he says in his annoying older sibling voice. “We would _never_.”

Nile raises both eyebrows.

“Well, Nicky wouldn’t,” Joe amends, with a sigh that implies that his invites fell on deaf Italian ears. “He’s very serious about these things, Nile.” His face turns way too dreamy for a guy who’s been cockblocking himself for months, and Nile shakes her head.

“Fine,” she says. “Then all my money’s on France.”

Joe laughs, pulling out his omnioculars. They’re a sleek new model which look like a pair of round muggle sunglasses; Nile knows they’re Italian made.

“Get ready to be very poor, then,” he says, and they both settle in.

It’s a bruising, bloody game right from kick-off – literally, one of the French Beaters collides with an Italian Chaser within the first thirty seconds, spilling first blood against the snow. The stands shake with spectators’ reactions, and Nile eyes the stadium nervously. League playoffs are tense, but _this_ is a whole other level.

“ _Gauvin to Greizmann to Diani, back to Gauvin, beautiful Porskoff there by France, Gauvin to – oh no, stunning shot by Genovese to break up that formation, Gauvin drops the quaffle –_ ”

Joe punches the air, almost smacking Nile in the face, who shoves at him, groaning. She focuses her own omnioculars on Booker, hovering in front of his goalposts. He looks tired but focused, hair loose across his forehead. When France scores the first goal of the game, he does a little loop, grinning, and Nile jabs Joe in the ribs. He retaliates when Italy scores moments later.

It’s the fastest and most ruthless game Nile has ever witnessed. By the first time-out, Italy is up by twenty points, and nearly every player on both teams has been injured. The players’ box has separated into factions as bets solidify. The comradery between them makes Nile smile, even when she can’t follow all the languages being yelled across the room. Trash-talk, she supposes, is universal.

“ _Dios,_ Le Livre’s getting old,” one of the Spanish Beaters says from behind her. “Grandpa’s last World’s, huh?”

“Most likely,” the Korean Keeper says, leaning forwards. “Though I wouldn’t underestimate – oh! What did I just say! He’s still got it!”

Booker had just made a spectacular dive across the hoops, flying into Caputo’s shot to stop the goal. It’s a risky move, at the speed quaffles go, and he spirals for a moment, doubled over, but then he rights himself as the French contingent scream their approval, and Nile claps along with them. Both teams are holding at 130 points; the fight to break that tie is making the whole stadium strain.

The game takes a nasty turn when the French Beaters forgo targeting the Italian Chasers to focus on Nicky instead. He and fellow Beater Caldara have been ruining the French’s scoring strategies all game, and the French have evidently picked Nicky as the main culprit. Joe is coiled tight next to Nile, hissing through his teeth every time Nicky’s nearly hit. There’s a growing murmur in the players’ box as the Beaters on both teams grow wilder and wearier, no snitch in sight.

And then – both Nicky and Torrent hurtle towards a bludger, and Torrent’s bat collides with Nicky’s face on her backswing, full-force, sending him spinning backwards, immediately unconscious, blood spurting. The entire stadium gasps, as if they’d all heard the sickening _crunch_ , and Nile hears herself cry out.

Mediwizards catch Nicky before he hits the ground, but it doesn’t look good. They surround him as the opposing teams descend upon each other, furious, the Italians looking seconds away from drawing their wands. A stadium-wide shield charm has gone up between the Italian and French stands, but it feels shaky, fans climbing on their seats, screaming. The players’ box is just as loud, but Nile looks across at Joe to find him deathly still, hands over his mouth. Before she can speak, one of the British Chasers says next to her,

“Well, you can’t say he didn’t deserve it.”

Nile’s blood runs cold, and her hands on her wand before she realises it.

“ _What_ ,” Joe says, audible even though his voice is low, “the _fuck did you just_ –”

“Look, Kaysani,” the Chaser says, rolling his eyes, “I know you’re on Genovese’s dick or whatever, but Torrent just did her team a fa –”

Joe leaps across Nile and tackles the Brit with a roar. Whatever tenuous civility had held the players’ box snaps, and suddenly Nile’s in a heave of bodies, weeks of pent up tension spilling over. She’s torn between stopping Joe and helping him, which is tough because there are strict rules about duelling but not so much about muggle fighting. Besides, Joe seems to be doing rather well. Dimly, Nile hears the stadium commentator saying

“ _Oh, while the teams have been separated, it looks like the players’ box is continuing the fight, good Lord –_ ”

She shoves back against a Bulgarian and a German who have careened into her, before crouching down next to Joe, blocking him from the stadium’s view. Joe has the offending Brit flat on the ground, both punching at each other, cursing.

“Alright,” Nile says, channelling her best Andy voice. “Let’s not end World’s with suspensions, gentlemen.”

This work after a minute; security’s also arrived, and players are splitting up, most with a good-natured shove. Joe doesn’t seem quite there, but he does stop and take Nile’s hand, grimacing as he stands.

“You good?” Nile asks as the Chaser wisely slinks off.

“Did they say anything about Nicky?” Joe says, jamming his omnioculars back on. His hair is wild, and there’s blood on his cheek, but Nile doesn’t think it’s his. Players are righting themselves around them, the Italy-French divide forgotten as they all crowd against the edge of the stand, trying to figure out what’s happening. Both teams’ captains are on the ground, but Nile can see the Seekers circling high above them, utilising the time-out.

There’s a collective gasp as the mediwizards part, and Nicky stands up, slow but steady. The stadium projection fills with his image. He’s still covered in blood, but it’s stopped flowing. His eyes are clear, and as the audience realises what’s happening, he bares his teeth and raises his hand, saluting the crowd. The Italy supporters promptly lose it, and even the French are clapping grudgingly.

“Surely,” a Swedish player says as Nicky confers with his captain. “ _Surely_ Genovese isn’t going to– oh, he’s getting back on his broom. Oh, he’s mad. Truly mad.”

“That he is,” Joe says faintly. Nile can’t decide if Joe looks more horrified or awestruck. Either way, it’s besotted.

Nicky’s return reinvigorates the Italians, even though Nile’s quite sure he should _not_ be flying again so soon. She finds herself clutching at Joe, both of them watching Nicky like hawks. The Italian chasers are racking up shots on goal at record pace, and only Booker’s insane performance is stopping them winning by goals alone. Nile hasn’t seen him so on form in ages, grinning with every save, the stadium chanting his name. She can feel Joe’s conflict next to her, both of them rooting for Nicky and Booker in equal turns. She’s following the French chasers’ formation when Joe smacks her with a shout, on his feet a second before both Seekers on-pitch dive, snitch in sight.

The entire crowd rears to its feet as both players spiral, too close and too fast, and Nile can barely watch –

The French Seeker skids upwards, fist in the air. The stadium erupts in red white and blue, and Nile is immediately deafened, absolute triumph and abject horror exploding all around her as the whistle blows. She hollers as the French supporters in the players’ box envelope her, and Joe groans and flips her off, hands in his hair.

“You’re paying for the rest of my drinks this season!” she yells at him, even though neither of them can hear. Everyone’s either embracing or fighting, it’s hard to tell, but Nile grins and lets herself be swept up in it. Quidditch is a madman’s game, but by God, she fucking _loves_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Will the lads finally become the dream team power couple every verse deserves? Can Booker finally get some goddamn Happiness TM ? Will Nile and her muggle family stop stealing my heart? Will I be able to cram it all into a non-novel-length Part II? Stay tuned!
> 
> Come yell at me (@mehmeh) on discord if you’re so inclined! I’m trying to keep this to a two-parter but I have so many thoughts on this pick’n’mix verse of magic and sports shenanigans man. Open to everyone’s brilliant thoughts in this sandbox.
> 
> All feedback welcome :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things come to a head for different players in vastly different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, within a week of publishing Part I, this has grown from a ‘snapshots only’ fic into an aggressively expanding verse that definitely needs to be more than two parts. I might have a problem.
> 
> This has been largely enabled by my phenomenal brain trust, [ Beth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andtimeisnotonourside/pseuds/andtimeisnotonourside) and [Weiwei](https://twitter.com/nosleepweiwei), who have developed enough content with me to fill a novel-length mainfic and multiple sidefics for every character and several relevant OCs. Truly, the ~~worst~~ best. Extra shoutout for the beta work!

“I heard you fought a Brit for me,” Nicky says, and Joe wants to kiss the smirk right off his stupid, _stupid_ face.

“I heard you flew directly after a _traumatic brain injury_ ,” Joe says instead, and Nicky waves a hand.

“No I didn’t,” he says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Didn’t you hear the official report? I pulled back just in time for it to break my nose and jaw, not much more.”

Joe stares at him. He would shake him if he hadn’t been worrying about Nicky’s health every waking minute for the last few days.

“That’s bullshit,” he starts, words catching in his mouth. “They always understate head injuries, you know that, I saw you get hit, it was not just – it was _not just_ – for God’s sake, _Nicky_.”

Joe snaps his mouth shut before he can sound any more incoherent. Nicky’s expression has shifted into concern, which is ridiculous considering _he’s_ the injured one. Joe knows Nicky’s been with healers the second he’d landed, probably forced to recuperate at wand-point, and he knows that as stubborn as Nicky is, he takes long-term threats seriously, but _still_ –

“You’re fucking incurable, you know that?” Joe says finally, and takes Nicky’s face in his hands as if he can manually assess the damage. He can’t help imagining the mediwizards resetting Nicky’s bones under all that blood, and he feels nauseous all over again, even though there’s no evidence of it now. All the familiar details are there: the mole on the right, the faint scar under the left eye, the stubble on his cheeks. Joe knows Nicky will shave before practice tomorrow, even though he’s benched until Andy clears him. No player or Healer alive will argue with Andy about head injuries.

“Still pretty, Healer?” Nicky says, and Joe laughs, a little choked, and rests his forehead against Nicky’s. He’s still worried, of course, but right now he’s just happy to be back together, away from the pressure and publicity of World’s. He’s grateful they’re reuniting outside the locker room, too. Nile is holding back the team’s teasing with an iron fist, but it’ll only hold so long. Nicky’s hands are warm on his shoulders, and he smiles in that way Joe claims selfishly as _his_ , wide and unfiltered.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Nicky says softly.

“You should be,” Joe says, mock-serious, and resists the urge to close the gap between them. It’s a truly herculean task.

\--

World’s was meant to be a good test: time away, plenty of distractions. Maybe it would burst the bubble they’d been suspended in since Nicky had joined the Guard. Maybe when they saw each other again, Joe wouldn’t be crawling out of his skin with _want_ , always watching and teasing and showing off for Nicky, who was always looking right back at him, always watching his back, always at his side.

Joe knows what’s going on, and he thinks Nicky does too; he thinks Nicky knows _he_ knows. It runs circles in his mind, between Nicky hugging him post-match, almost too hard, to how gently he touches Joe in private, almost like it’s dangerous. Joe pushes him, of course he does, and it only makes the air between them more electric, blurring the lines between _friends_ and _teammates_ and whatever purgatory they are currently in.

Before Nicky, Quidditch is the only thing Joe has ever been a hundred percent sure of, and he knows Nicky’s the same. It’s a career they start so young; it’s a career that subsumes their entire lives. And he’s never jeopardised that, for himself or his team, for anything or anyone. Sure, at some point, he wants what his mother and father have, a house filled with love and laughter. But there’s plenty of time for that after Quidditch – if it didn’t kill him first, as he and Booker would joke, just this side of serious.

If he crosses that line with Nicky, and Nicky rejects him – well, he can’t quite imagine that. But if they change their friendship, and it goes badly, or affects their game, their team, if either gets traded, if they split and can’t go back, if he loses Nicky in any way from what they have now –

So he says nothing as they return to the regular season. Just lets the lines continue to blur and bend and stretch between them. Joe’s never proclaimed to be the smartest guy on the pitch; he’s also unsure if this is hedonism or masochism. But he’s playing better than ever and so is their team, so he lets it slide. Nicky’s certainly doing the same.

They make it to playoffs; Nicky is cleared to play at full capacity again. Andy actually smiles. The team gets entirely too drunk and then starts getting entirely too weird. Playoffs border on the religious – superstitions run rampant, accidental or otherwise, and once set, cannot be broken. Andy rolls her eyes but doesn’t stop them, considering she’s always wearing the same necklace and gripping it before kick-off. Nile and her fellow Chasers develop an overly complex three-way handshake and nearly non-verbal communication. Nicky snaps at anyone who says _good luck_ , so they all learn to say _in bocca al lupo_ , to which someone must reply _crepi_ or risk getting an Italian death glare from across the room.

Seekers are notorious for having the strangest traditions, lone as they are, but Joe hasn’t quite found his thing yet. He does shave his hair and beard right back, out of the way, and immediately regrets it when Nicky looks distraught. It’s not until they’re in the second round that he realises what his routines are: Nicky, always checking Joe’s broom before warmups, Nicky mixing his shakes for him by hand, Nicky making his couches stretch out so they can pregame nap in the same room. It could be worse.

It’s just prior to Game Three when Joe wakes early on said couch. It’s unusual – they usually rationalise the arrangement by noting how much easier it is to sleep with the other around. Nicky’s curled up on the couch adjacent to him, and as Joe’s head clears, he realises what woke him. Nicky’s twisting under his blanket, fists clenched, and a moment later he cries out, face contorting.

“Nicky – hey, _hey_ –” Joe says, rolling to crouch next to him, trying to wake him gently. Nicky jolts up, nearly smacking their heads together. There are tears in his eyes, and when he realises Joe is beside him, he groans and rolls away. Joe would rather have been smacked.

“ _Mi dispiace_ ,” Nicky says into his hands, still hunched away from Joe. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Joe says, hand hovering over Nicky’s shoulder. “Nightmare?”

Nicky sighs.

“ _Sì_.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Nicky is silent for a long time. Joe waits. It hurts him, to imagine Nicky in pain and not letting him help, even though Nicky’s perfectly entitled to that, it’s just –

“I lost you,” Nicky says, and his voice is raw. “I dreamt – last season, when I hit you. I didn’t catch you.” His voice breaks. “I killed you.”

Joe lets out his own breath. Truth be told, he’d had nightmares about that too. The blinding flash of pain; the split second thought of _this is it_. He’s rather glad he’d been unconscious for the fall. But that feels a lifetime ago now. He takes a seat next to Nicky’s prone form, still curled in on himself, and grips his shoulder.

“Nicolò,” he says, and Nicky shudders under his hand. “Nicky, look at me. C’mon.”

After a moment, Nicky sits up. His cheeks are wet, and he scrubs at his eyes until Joe takes his hands away and wipes the tears dry for him. Nicky leans into his touch for a moment before recoiling, eyes downcast.

“You’re the last person who needs to hear about this,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Nicky,” Joe says, “You’re my best friend. I’m always going to be here to listen to this shit, okay? Even if it’s about me.”

Nicky does look at him then, eyelashes clumped together, eyes shining.

“You’re too good to me,” he says, and Joe laughs, hands still around Nicky’s face. Nicky leans back into him like he can’t help it, and they’re both quiet for a moment, just breathing.

“ _Mi dispiace_ , Yusuf,” Nicky says finally, and Joe says,

“I know,” and pulls Nicky into a hug. Nicky’s rigid for a second before folding into him, burying his face against Joe’s neck. They fit like puzzle pieces, solid and sure.

“We should still sleep,” Joe says into Nicky’s hair, and Nicky hums his agreement. “Let me…”

Joe shifts so he’s behind Nicky, arms still around him, and they both lie back down, bracketing each other. Nicky tangles their hands together and Joe squeezes, a conversation all in itself. They fall asleep until their alarm goes off. It becomes tradition after that.

~*~

They win Game Three but ultimately lose Round Two. It sucks, of course it does, but they’ve gotten further than anyone expected them to this season. Joe catches the snitch in Game Seven, but the other team has outscored them, and win by goal points alone. Joe knows Nile will take this personally, and spends most of the immediate aftermath with the Chasers, making sure they’re okay. Nicky’s doing the same with the defence, so they don’t get time alone until the team has cleared out after Andy’s final word, off to nurse their wounds in peace.

Joe finds Nicky still sitting in the locker room, not even fully out of his gear. It’s very him – Nicky prefers to think over the game immediately afterwards, silent and focused, and will often stay behind once the team has gone, mulling over every move. He’s freaked out many a rookie with his unblinking stare, statue-still in his seat. They still mock Moran over how high-pitched he’d screamed when he’d gone back for his wallet, and bumped into Nicky sitting in the dark.

Joe pauses at the door. Nicky’s staring ahead, elbows braced on his knees. There’s no fat left on him at this point, and Joe can trace every line in his upper body, every bruise that’s yet to heal. He’s still got his pants and boots on, like he’s ready to run back out and replay the game. Joe walks over to him, and when Nicky doesn’t look up, Joe crouches down and starts unlacing his boots.

“I can do that,” Nicky says, but lets Joe free the long line of laces from shin to ankle. Joe shifts on his knees to unlace the other foot, and Nicky says,

“Yusuf…”

Joe tries to hide the shiver that runs down his spine.

“Nicolò,” he says, not looking up. “There’s nothing more you could have done. We had a great run this season –”

“Yusuf,” Nicky says, and puts a hand on Joe’s shoulder, stopping him. “I’m not thinking about the game.”

Joe stares fixedly at Nicky’s left boot.

“Oh?” he says. The blood is pounding in his ears. The floor is hard against his knees, but he can barely feel it.

“No,” Nicky says. “I was – I was thinking about you. About us.”

Joe might die. He might die, right here, right now, at Nicky’s feet. He could accept that.

“What about us?” he asks, mouth clumsy. Nicky’s fingers find his face and tilts his chin up. Nicky’s staring down at him, face open, colour high in his cheeks.

“Yusuf,” Nicky says, and his voice is thick. “I don’t care if I win with you or lose with you, as long as it’s _with you_. I don’t care if we’re competing together or against each other, as long as, at the end of the day –”

“I get to come home to you,” Joe finishes, and they both stare at each other, eyes wide.

“Yes,” Nicky breathes out, like he hasn’t done so in long time, “yes, that’s exactly what I –”

Joe doesn’t know who moves first, if Nicky jolts forward or he surges up, but then they’re kissing, Nicky cradling his jaw, his own hands in Nicky’s hair. It’s the single most glorious thing Joe has ever experienced; sweeter than any win he’s ever grasped. His fingers tighten in Nicky’s hair, and Nicky moans into his mouth. Joe’s neck is protesting the angle, but Nicky’s hands are on him and –

“Oh Jesus fuck, _seriously_?!”

They pull apart, hands still gripping each other. Nile’s backing out of the room, hands over her eyes, and Joe realises belatedly how they must look: Nicky half-undressed, Joe on his knees in front of him.

“No, Nile!” he calls, but the door’s already swinging shut behind her, her curses still audible. “Oh dear,” he says, and Nicky laughs, stroking a hand through Joe’s hair.

“Oh dear indeed,” he says, and Joe looks back up at him, sliding his hands down to grip Nicky’s wrists. Nicky’s smiling at him, radiant, mouth red. His blush extends all the way to his chest. 

“Come home with me,” Joe says, and his heart swells as Nicky replies, utterly sincere,

“Of course.”

\--

When they arrive together at the end-of-season party a week later, the entire team gives them a standing ovation. Nicky jumps at the number of wands pointed at them, but it’s only to shower them with confetti and glitter. Joe blows kisses to everyone before giving an exaggerated bow, refusing to let go of Nicky even as he tries to pull away, glaring at Nile. She glares right back.

“Grace period’s over, assholes,” she says. “Especially after what I saw –”

“We _weren’t –_ ” Nicky says, and Joe hastily shifts to hold him back as the team drowns him out, half of them laughing and half making retching noises.

“As _delighted_ as we are for you two,” Andy says, downing her drink, “new rule for next season: no Frenching in the locker room. Or anything further. In any public team space.”

Joe didn’t realise Nicky could look even more offended than he already was.

“I don’t _French_ ,” he says, and stalks after Andy as she lazily escapes. “Andy, _non prendere esempio da Nile –_ ”

Nile walks over to Joe as the team disperses, and he hugs her with one arm, getting glitter all over her.

“He’s such a liar,” Joe says fondly. “He totally does French.”

“Gross,” Nile says, shoving Joe’s entire face away with her hand. “This is not what we meant when we said get your shit together.”

“It’s just a perk, then,” Joe says, and she sighs but hugs him back.

“We’re happy for you,” she says, too mature. “We really did appreciate you two trying to keep it professional for the season, but – we’ll make it work. You both will.”

Joe looks around at their team, their crew, everyone’s assorted family members. There’s so much joy between them all that he can’t stop smiling, and everywhere he looks, everyone’s smiling back. Playoffs always ends too early if it doesn’t end with the Championship, but considering where they were this time last year, they know they’ve done well. They know what they’re capable of next season.

But right now, the summer stretches out in front of them, blissfully unrushed. The fatigue of the season bathes everything in a hazy glow, but Joe can also feel the anticipation, running through his fingers. Nicky’s still talking to Andy outside, one of the Equipment Manager’s young sons clinging to his leg. Joe looks at him and realises, as he’s been realising all week, that _he can have this now_. That after what feels like an eon of holding back, Nicky is finally, fully, within his reach.

“We’ll have to figure things out,” Joe says to Nile. “How it’ll work with the game, the team…”

“I know you were both worried about it,” Nile says, nodding.

“Yes,” Joe says. “But right now, I can barely remember why.”

Nile laughs and brushes glitter out of his beard.

“Love at first bludger, huh?” she says, teasing, but Joe’s expression must betray him, because her hand stills and Nile stares at him, face softening.

“Oh, Lord,” she says, and he laughs, self-deprecating.

“Not quite,” he says, “but…”

He looks back out the window. Nicky glances in at him and smiles, eyes crinkling. He is the most beautiful thing Joe has ever seen.

“I’ve loved him for a long time,” he says truthfully, and his mind says _and I will for the rest of my life_. He doesn’t say that to Nile though. The team may be supportive, but they’ll still hex him on principle.

~*~

They spend the first few weeks of offseason at Joe’s, mainly horizontal, but also figuring things out. It sends sparks through Joe’s stomach every time he realises a new thing he can now do; another barrier he no longer has to care about. But for the most part, they stay largely the same. They still workout and eat and nap together; Nicky still alphabetises Joe’s spice rack and Joe still sneaks better-fitted shirts into Nicky’s wardrobe. He mentions the lack of change to Nile and she looks both amused and exasperated, which is quickly becoming a familiar expression.

Then, of course, Joe goes home to Tunis. He never has enough time with them, and all three of his sisters are threatening him with bodily harm if he doesn’t arrive soon. Nicky leaves for Italy; Joe knows it’ll mean catching up with old friends, getting mobbed by fans and trying to keep family visits to a bare minimum. He’s loathe to let Nicky suffer through that alone, but bringing Nicky home with him seems too presumptuous. Maybe that’s irrational – Nicky’s met his entire family multiple times over the last season, and Joe thinks they like him. They appreciate Nicky’s dedication to keeping Joe injury-free, anyway. But even if much has remained the same between them, their shift still feels monumental, and Joe wants to let it breathe before he says anything. He should’ve known better.

They dogpile him as soon as he’s through the door, Zahra tackling him around the middle as Amira jumps on him from the right. He goes down with a shout of laughter, bags flying, and they both noogie him as they plant kisses over his face. Ayesha, ever dignified, crouches down next to him as he tries to fend off the younger two. Ayesha often makes them feel like she’s the oldest, rather than Joe, and he feels that now – especially as she’s twirling her wand through her fingers. Joe tries to reach for his own, but Zahra pounces on his arm and he realises what this is: an ambush.

“Alright,” Ayesha says. “Out with it.”

“Out with what?” he says, and gets jabbed in the ribs. “Hey! What is this? I’ve barely arrived and this is the treatment I get?”

“Oh, listen to him,” Zahra says to the others. “Poor Prince Yusuf, expecting the red carpet and instead he gets us.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Joe says, wiggling his arm free to point at her. “Besides, you are the _last_ of us to rib me for being spoilt, little Miss Child Surprise.”

Zahra sticks her tongue out at him, in the same way at twenty as she’d done at ten. She’d arrived a full nine years after Joe, and it’s jarring to see how much she’s grown without him sometimes. It’s nice to note the constants, even if she is currently crushing him.

“Don’t change the subject,” Ayesha says, still twirling her wand.

“What subject are we on?” Joe says. Ayesha snorts.

“Oh, you want to play it like that?” she says, and sits back on her haunches. “Okay, let’s review. So the season before last –”

Joe groans. He knows he can’t throw stones, but he can’t believe he’s about to get story-timed by his little sister.

“– you almost die at the hands of this Italian nightmare,” Ayesha says loudly over him, and Joe gets out,

“He’s not, I didn’t –” before Amira puts a hand over his mouth without even looking.

“And then you’re like, oh, _he’s actually very nice, we’re friends now_ ,” Ayesha continues, making air quotes with her fingers, “and you blow us off to hang out with him –”

“Thatsnotmmph –” Joe says.

“And _then_ the Italian nightmare gets traded over,” Ayesha says, “and we get an entire season of _Nicky this_ and _Nicky that_ , and _oh he’s so funny_ and _oh he’s so thoughtful_ and _oh did I mention how handsome he is when he’s hitting things,_ he’s not even that good looking, Yusuf!”

Joe glares at her with as much dignity as he can muster, which right now, is not very much.

“Not to mention what happened at the World Cup Finals,” Ayesha says, grinning with all her teeth. “Oh, you just wait till mama and baba get back, you’re in _so_ much trouble.”

Their parents arrive home moments later, laden with groceries.

“Girls, get off him!” Mariam says, shooing at his sisters. “He gets injured enough during the season, for goodness’ sake.”

Joe jumps up to hug her once his sisters have retreated, and she smells so much of home that he has to pick her up, making her laugh. She squeezes him tight before saying, “Ugh, they made you so thin,” as she does every post-season, and Joe shares a wry smile with his father as they hug as well. By the time he turns back, the groceries are unpacking themselves and his mother is glaring at him, hands on hips.

“Yusuf,” she says, and Joe’s spine immediately straightens. “You know what I’ve been hearing about since January?”

“Tunisia doing historically well at World’s?” Joe says as angelically as he can. Ibrahim is hiding his laugh in the background. Mariam scoffs.

“Every auntie and old school teacher of yours wants to know, _whatever happened to our sweet boy?_ ” she says, and Joe feels his face grow hot. “Oh, the number of pictures I’ve seen of you starting that fight –”

“In my defence –” Joe says, before snapping his mouth shut at her expression.

“Do you not get hurt enough on the pitch?” she asks, throwing her hands in the air. “You have to go risking it when you’re _not even playing_?”

“I had a good reason,” he says, and then realises the corner he’s backed himself into as everybody’s eyebrows rise. Even his father looks intrigued, where he would normally be saving Joe from interrogation.

“I’m waiting to hear it,” Mariam says, fingers tapping against her wand. Joe sighs. All of his sisters look horribly gleeful.

“They insulted Nicky,” Joe says, lowering his voice as if that’ll help. “Right after he got hit.”

He hears his sisters all make different noises of triumph, but he ignores them to look at his parents. They’re exchanging a glance that holds an entire conversation.

“Mama,” Joe says, and his mother looks back at him, expression softening. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have. But Nicky…” he pauses, careful not to clench his hands. “I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t.”

His mother steps close and takes his face in her hands. She has to reach up a fair distance to do so, but he still feels like he’s the smaller one. 

“Oh, Yusuf,” she says, and he closes his eyes for a moment, chest constricting. “I understand. But never again, okay? You find another way.” She shakes her head, some of the scold coming back into her voice. “ _He’s_ the wild one, not you.”

“Nicky’s not wild,” Joe says immediately, and his mother rolls her eyes, stepping back.

“He’s the one with the bat,” she says, and Joe laughs.

“He’s actually really sweet,” he says, which he realises is a mistake before the words have even left his mouth. Zahra giggles so hard she rolls off the couch, and Ayesha looks disgusted.

“Yeah,” she says, “he looks _real_ sweet when he’s hunting down whichever poor Beater took a crack at you.”

“Woah, whose side are you on?” Joe asks, crossing his arms, and she mirrors him. She’s the same height as him, and Amira eyes them warily.

“Alright, you two,” Mariam says, in the same tone she’s been using since Joe and Ayesha were six and four respectively. “I want a fight-free summer, okay?” She turns, muttering. “Honestly, the gossip I’ve had to put up with, Yusuf. I can barely make it down the street without someone asking about you. It’s worse than when you did that naked photoshoot.”

Joe lets out a yelp as his sisters whoop with laughter.

“I was not _naked_ ,” Joe says, looking to his father for support. Ibrahim only lifts his paper to hide his smile, and Joe groans. “Why do I even come home?” he gripes, moving to help his mother setup afternoon tea.

“I mean, you were very late coming back,” Ayesha says. “Bet that was sweet little _Nicky’s_ fault too, huh?”

Joe throws an orange at her, which she deflects with her wand and ends up bonking him in the head. They’re both soundly told off. Joe glares at Ayesha, until she passes by and he wraps his arms around her, and she squeezes back. It’s good to be home.

~*~

“So,” Joe says like he’s in the commentators’ box. “We have news.”

Andy snorts from where she’s leaning against the back wall, a team jacket thrown over her tank top, already deep in pre-season prep. Nicky thinks she’s just here for entertainment, rather than as an authority figure, and he doesn’t blame her. Joe has a…contentious relationship with the Guard’s PR team, and Aida’s expression says she’s remembering every sin Joe has ever committed on camera. There’s a young woman sitting next to her, black hair in a neat bun, gold-rimmed glasses catching the light. Aida had introduced her as Caitlin, their new PR intern. Nicky tries to smile at her reassuringly. Joe doesn’t make for a low-key induction.

“Nicky and I are together,” Joe says in a rush, and his smile is so bright Nicky can’t look away. “Like, _together_ together.”

Andy coughs like she’s hiding a snigger. Aida looks like she’s thinking about retirement. Caitlin’s face is carefully neutral.

“Okay…” Aida says. Joe gives her his widest-eyed look.

“Aida,” he says, “I thought you’d be impressed! I’m telling you news before it’s in the papers! I’m thinking ahead, we’ve practiced press responses, we’ve prepared –”

“Is that true?” Aida asks Nicky, and Joe give a mock-gasp, hand on his chest. Nicky puts a hand on his knee before he can get too dramatic.

“Yes,” he says, “but of course, we wanted to get your expertise on the matter.”

Aida looks gratified, and she sits back, eyes flicking between them. Nicky feels like he’s back in the principal’s office.

“Well,” she says, “firstly, congratulations.”

“Thank you!” Joe says, far too enthusiastic. Aida looks like she regrets everything.

“Secondly, there’s several ways you could play this. But frankly, unless you do an official announcement, I don’t think it’ll affect much. Rehearsing some responses is always smart, but my only concern is keeping this one on track.” She points a finger at Joe, who pouts at her. Caitlin’s eyebrows rise incrementally.

“I’m always on –” Joe starts. Aida points her wand at a side cabinet and a binder comes whizzing out, landing neatly on the desk between them.

“This,” Aida says, half-turning to Caitlin, “is the folder of bad press responses. About sixty percent is all al-Kaysani.”

Nicky leans forward, because he’s actually rather interested. Aida flips the binder open and taps her wand against a snapshot of Joe in a post-game press scrum, sweaty and elated. Audio fills the room.

“ _Thoughts on Hughes?”_ one reporter asks. “ _He might break your catch streak this year._ ”

“ _Oh, he’s great,_ ” Joe says. “ _But he should bring lube if he’s going to spend the entire game that far up my arse.”_

Caitlin snorts before trying to cover it with a cough. Joe grins at her. Aida flips forward to clips from last season.

“Now, last season was different, but still bad,” she says, tapping another shot.

“ _How is Genovese settling into the team?_ ” someone asks. “ _Any hard feelings after last season’s hit_?”

Nicky’s fingers tighten on Joe’s knee, and Joe puts his hand over Nicky’s. Joe in the press footage lights up, smiling.

“ _Nah, fuck no_ ,” he says. They’re evidently watching uncensored tape. “ _He’s settling in great. I mean, have you seen his numbers? Not that I personally understand all the stats, but I don’t think you need to, to see how amazing he’s doing. He’s blended right in with the first twine, it’s absolutely magic to see him practice. Also, everything you hear about his precision is true. When he hits that sweet spot –_ ”

Aida snaps the binder shut. Joe’s looking gleefully unabashed. Nicky knows his face is red. Caitlin’s eyeing them like the water’s deeper than she expected.

“That interview threw the entire schedule off, and it was the tamest scrum he had,” Aida says. “So I can only imagine how it’s going to be this year.”

“What can I say,” Joe says breezily. “I’m an honest man.”

“When we interviewed Caitlin,” Aida says, “we tested her on multiple forms of the silencing charm. She’s very good at it, and she’s been given explicit permission to use it at her discretion. You’ve been warned, Joe.”

“Aw, I’m getting a special intern?” Joe says, smiling at Caitlin. He frowns a moment later. “Wait, I’m getting a special intern? What about Nicky?”

Everyone in the room gives Joe a long look.

“You could probably afford to say a bit more,” Aida says to Nicky after a moment of thought. He makes a face. Aida sighs.

“Why can’t you all just be like Nile?” she asks, which honestly, is fair enough.

\--

Aida’s right: without making an announcement, nothing much changes as the regular season kicks in. Joe thinks it’s because they’re relatively discrete; the team says it’s because they’ve always been so gross together that no one can spot the difference. Either way, they’re protected by the norm of Quidditch players being quite affectionate, and the press remain at bay, content with op-eds about their on-pitch synergy and already stirring up Championship talk.

Some things do change though, and one of them is this:

“ _Fuck_ , Yusuf,” Nicky’s muttering, mouth hot against the curve of Joe’s throat as Joe desperately tries to unlock their hotel room. “The way you snatched the snitch right out from under Hawkin’s nose –”

“Wow, thanks,” Joe says, almost dropping his wand as Nicky sucks a kiss right under his jaw. He’s clean shaven at the moment, and as much as Nicky loves his beard, he also loves doing this. “I didn’t realise you were so into Seeker technique –”

“When it’s you, I am,” Nicky says, words too sincere for how his hands are already under Joe’s shirt, fingers burning. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe sees one of Nile’s Chasers round the corner, and then U-turn so quickly she might as well have apparated. Joe would feel bad but he’s finally figured out the lock, and they stumble back into their shared room, Nicky kicking the door shut behind them.

“Let me cast a –” Joe says, and is cut off by Nicky shoving him back onto the bed and crawling on top of him, fingers working on Joe’s belt. “Nicolò, the rookies are right next door –”

“Let them suffer,” Nicky says, and Joe catches his grin before he bites along Joe’s hipbone, making him buck up with a gasp.

“You’re evil, you know that?” Joe says, and then neither of them are speaking much at all.

\--

“That was fast,” Nile says as Olivia reappears at the hotel bar. “Did you find it?”

Olivia picks up June’s drink next to Nile and throws it back like a shot. Nile and June look at her amusedly; the rookies sitting with them stare.

“Nobody,” she says, “ _nobody_ go up to the 3rd floor for a while. Trust me. Another round, please!”

~*~

Nile spends the summer dragging Ty out for runs whenever he’s not at his internship, making up for him beating her at every video game they play.

“This. Is. Not. Fair,” he says, panting on their circuit around Millennium Park. “You’re a professional athlete! I’m a software engineer. I don’t _need_ to run.”

“Oh, you don’t _need_ good cardiovascular health?” Nile says, jogging backwards to grin at him. “C’mon, Ty. Don’t make me lap you.”

She takes her mother shopping and cites her own need for a pamper, which is the only way to get her mother to play along. Nile has a family fund set up from her League pay cheques, and is quietly looking into property with Ty. There’s still awhile to go, but the idea of being able to do that for her mother makes all the time away worth it.

The team spreads far and wide during the offseason. Andy’s travelling; Nile doesn’t want to think about what Joe and Nicky are doing, and her Chaser squad shares photo updates, which is cute. After two seasons with the Guard, Nile feels much more at home, and knows any of them would be on-call if she were to reach out. The only person missing is Booker.

Booker hadn’t had much in-air time for the rest of the regular season, which was strange considering how well he’d performed at World’s. Back in the League, he’d been off kilter, making stupid mistakes and sustaining longer injuries. The Alchemists hadn’t made the playoffs. Copley had looked close to tears, and Merrick had had one of his infamous tantrums, apparently. Nile had thought Booker would be easier to contact once the Guard’s season finished, but apparently not. Nile’s unsure if that’s just him being a grandpa with tech or something else, but there’s little she can do from Chicago. She’s got plenty on; Booker will just have to be mysterious by himself.

She leaves home earlier than Ty for pre-season, and then regular season kicks off. There’s an underlying thrum of excitement in the locker room, after their solid run last year. Nile’s solidly in first twine this season, and her chemistry with Olivia and June is earning them the nickname Cerberus, the three-headed monster.

In September, they play the Alchemists in London. Booker’s actually in-air this time, which Nile is gratified to hear until she sees the way he’s flying, erratic and unsteady. Nile’s glad Joe catches the snitch less than an hour in. It doesn’t feel right to score on someone so obviously unwell. When they shake hands on the ground, he barely makes eye contact, just grimaces before walking off. Nile stares after him before Nicky touches her shoulder. The rest of the team have already exited the pitch.

“Have you talked to Booker recently?” she asks, and Nicky makes a face.

“Unfortunately not,” he says. “I really should. I’ve just been so…”

“Disgustingly loved up?” Nile suggests, and Nicky knocks her shoulder, unable to help the slight smile on his face.

“No,” he says, “and that’s no excuse. I really must though.”

“I think I’ll drop by his place after we cool down,” Nile says, and Nicky looks at her, surprised. “We’ve got a couple days off and he’s been weird since World’s,” Nile says, shrugging. “Andy hasn’t heard much from him either.”

“Alright,” Nicky says, nodding. “Let us know when you’re home safe.”

It’s evening by the time Nile apparates to Booker’s. She reasons that Booker wouldn’t have told her the unlocking charms to his property if he hadn’t been okay with her popping by. In her first season with the Guard, her, Joe and Andy would come by regularly, and he’d always have some new art piece to show her.

The house is dark when Nile passes through the wards. The gate is stiff, and she almost trips over a bottle that’s hidden in the grass, wild and unkempt. The back of her neck prickles, and by the time she gets to the front door, she has her wand up. The front door is…unlocked. Nile takes a breath and knocks, clear as she can.

“Booker?” she calls, pushing the door open. “It’s me, Nile. You home?”

For a wild moment, she wonders if Booker’s brought someone home and forgotten to lock the door. Frankly, she’d be happy if that’s the case; she’s never once seen Booker show interest in anyone, despite having plenty of fans. But no – the house is silent and still, and she wrinkles her nose as the smell hits her, old food and alcohol fumes permeating the air. She _hopes_ Booker isn’t bringing anyone home to this.

“Booker?” she calls out again, walking through the living room. It’s more bachelor pad than she remembers, and Booker’s evidently familiar with muggle food delivery services. She hears a noise in the kitchen, and she flicks on the light as she rounds the corner. “Booker –”

\--

Nicky is dishing up dessert when Andy’s castcomm pings with Nile’s tone. She glances over at where it’s sitting on the coffee table, but ignores it in favour of Nicky’s tiramisu, which Joe thinks is only logical. Before she can take a second bite, though, the tone pings again. And again. And then repeats so quickly the pings overlap. By the time Andy’s striding over to pick up the device, it’s ringing.

“Nile?” Andy says. At her expression, Nicky is half out of his seat, Joe right beside him.

“Alright,” Andy says. “Nile – I understand. We’re coming. Send me the address.”

She flips her castcomm shut and catches the jacket Joe throws to her.

“We need to get to London,” she says. “Now.”

\--

By the time they arrive, the muggle A&E is crawling with magical law enforcement. The British Ministry has never figured out how to blend in, even now, and Andy barrels past every Patrol Officer until they find the right room. The door shimmers with charms, and from the outside, everything seems normal. Inside – it’s chaos.

Nile is standing in front of the bed, fists clenched as two Patrol Officers face her. Behind her, Booker is vomiting, surrounded by healers and their muggle-liaison doctors. He’s curled up on his side, and even from the door, they can see his entire body shaking.

“That was the wrong move, young lady,” one Officer is saying to Nile as they enter. “We’re going to have to obliviate all the muggle doctors who treated him, whoever answered your call, destroy his scans –”

Andy slams the door shut, and everyone goes silent. Even Booker stops, hand pressed against his mouth as he collapses against the bed, chest heaving.

“What,” Andy says, “is going on?”

“Ma’am, you can’t be in here,” Officer one says, even though he clearly recognises all of them and shrinks back as he says it.

“I’m _his_ emergency contact,” Andy says, stabbing a finger in Booker’s direction, “and responsible for Nile. Now tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“Ma’am,” Officer two says, frowning at her, “Miss Freeman here called the muggle ambulance service for Mr Le Livre this evening despite this obviously being a magic-related incident –”

“It was not obvious,” Nile says, jaw clenched. “It looked like alcohol poisoning and he was drowning in his own –”

Booker groans from behind her, before leaning over and vomiting again. Nile closes her eyes for a moment, and Nicky sees her take a deep breath.

“As I said, my first instinct was to call an ambulance. I couldn’t have apparated him safely and there’s _no magical ambulance I could call_.”

“Now now,” Officer one says, “there’s no need for that tone, young lady –”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Andy says. Joe and Nicky step closer, flanking her, and both Officers look increasingly unnerved. “Nile found this idiot ill, got him help the fastest way she could and you’re harassing her for it, _right now_?” Officer one opens his mouth, and then snaps it shut when Andy rises to her full height. “She’s given her statement; you know what to do. It’s not the worst thing we’ve had to clear up, not by a long shot. So we’re done here, correct?”

The Officers look at each other.

“We’ll follow up later,” Officer two says, and they both hurry out. Nile exhales, shoulders sagging, and then immediately turns to Booker, who’s still curled on his side, facing away from them.

“Booker,” Nile says, and her voice is steady but very small. Booker doesn’t respond.

“He’s likely lost his voice,” one of the muggle nurses says, and gently directs Nile into a chair. She squeezes Nile’s shoulder as Nile stares at Booker’s back. “You did the right thing, Nile. Don’t mind them.”

Nicky sits down next to Nile as Joe and Andy confer with the healers. Nile’s hands are clasped tight in front of her, and Nicky bows his head with her. She glances at him after a moment, trying to smile before saying,

“Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Nicky says, and refrains from putting his arm around her. She’s holding herself rigidly together, and a soft touch at the wrong time can be fatal. Nicky knows exactly how that goes.

“I found him, I called the ambulance, they pumped his stomach,” Nile recites, voice flat. “I contacted the MLEP while that was happening. Officers arrived as the doctors were running scans because they’d found potion in his system, which they obviously couldn’t identify and was still making him sick.”

“You thought quickly and rationally,” Nicky says quietly. “You did the right thing.”

“We need to transfer him,” one of the Healers says. “He’s holding steady but we need to rehydrate him and it’s safer to oversee from our end.” She looks at Andy, who has a hand on Booker’s shoulder. “Ma’am, I know you’re his emergency contact but under usual protocol, we would inform his current team’s front office.”

“No!” Nile says, so sharply that they all turn to her. “No,” she says, standing. “Whatever’s gone wrong here, it’s from his team.” She looks at the Healer, eyes bright. “You analysed the potion I found at his house, didn’t you? Tell me it wasn’t the Draught of Rejuvenation that is regulated precisely for this reason. There’s no way he could’ve gotten so much of it by himself.”

“Kozak,” Andy, Joe and Nicky all say at once, and Nile glances between them, recognition on her face. All the older players know of Kozak’s reputation as a Team Healer; Nile must have heard Celeste bitch about her enough times as well. The Healer nods, giving Nile an affirming look.

“Look,” she says, “we have to transfer him now. We’ll get him cleaned up and stable before we take any further steps.”

They levitate Booker onto a gurney, a Healer supporting his head. Booker’s still conscious, but he doesn’t make eye contact with any of them, one hand curled over his throat. His hair is too long, falling into his eyes, and he’s gaunt under the harsh hospital lights, skin pallid. Nicky tamps down the rising twist in his chest. He should have thought – he should have checked in, like he’d said –

There’s a moment of indecision as they reach the exit. Healers will drive Booker to the closest magical hospital; there’s only room for one other person in the ambulance. Nicky takes a quick inventory: Joe’s face is set but his eyes are devastated. Nile is flagging, despite her perfectly straight back, and Andy looks increasingly murderous.

“Go,” Nicky says, levering himself up after Booker. “I’ll meet you all there.”

They nod, apparating as the rear doors shut. Nicky’s not the biggest fan of cars, but he takes a seat next to Booker as the ambulance starts moving. Booker finally looks at him and nods, incremental and thankful. Nicky covers Booker’s free hand with his own. They’re both shaking a little, which Nicky supposes they can blame on the bumpy road.

“Do you remember,” he says, and Booker’s eyes focus on him, sunken but still so blue, “when I was first drafted into the League, and I was your rookie, even though I wasn’t a Keeper?”

The corner of Booker’s mouth lifts, just a little.

“I don’t think I ever said thank you,” Nicky says, “for looking after me. Even when you had so much to take care of.”

Nicky distinctly remembers his first League injury, bad enough to wake up in hospital. Booker had been next to him, a mirror image to how they sat now.

“Damn,” he had said when Nicky had opened his eyes. “Thought I’d gotten rid of you!”

Booker’s lips move before he remembers his voice is gone. Nicky knows they’re thinking of the same memory. When Booker blinks, tears slide from the corners of his eyes, and Nicky reaches out and wipes them away. Booker grips his hand until they reach the second hospital.

\--

“Miss Freeman was very astute,” the Head Healer, Barker, says. “She was right about the Draught.”

They’re in a small room adjacent to the ward. Nile’s staring through the small window that shows Booker, freshly cleaned up and asleep. Another Healer is adjusting the magic equivalent of an IV while Nicky watches on. Joe has left to get her food. It’ll be wasted; her stomach has curled in on itself, clenching tight.

“For those of us who can’t remember high school potions,” Andy says, hand against Nile’s back, “remind me?”

“The Draught’s a misnomer,” Barker says, sighing. “Especially when it’s not made well, it doesn’t rejuvenate, not in the long-term. It mainly suppresses symptoms and makes you _feel_ rejuvenated. A little bit once in a while doesn’t hurt, it’s a popular hangover cure. But Mr Le Livre’s been overdosing on it for a long time now. Mixed with the amount of liver and kidney damage he has…” Barker shakes his head. “When toxicity levels are too high and the Draught can’t absorb it, it tries to purge the body instead,” he says. “That’s what happened today.”

“What’s the prognosis from here?” Nile asks, and her voice sounds foreign to her own ears. Barker gives her a gentle smile.

“Thanks to you,” he says, “the immediate danger is over. He can only rest now, and we’ll continue to monitor him as the last of the Draught and alcohol leaves his system.” 

Andy’s hand presses against Nile’s back, and she takes a deep breath, in, out.

“And after that?” she asks, and Barker’s expression turns wry.

“After that is up to him,” he says. “He needs to stop drinking immediately. He needs to start looking after himself and his health. The Draught’s been hiding a lot of issues for a long time, and it’s addictive. We need to talk with his current team.”

“Can we sue Kozak?” Nile asks, and Barker blinks at her. “For – for unethical practices. Negligence. Breaking potion regulations. Anything.”

Barker looks at Andy. Nile knows Barker’s dealt with more Quidditch players than she’ll ever meet, and worked with more mediwizards and Team Healers than she ever will. His expression is not promising.

“Let’s think about that after Booker wakes up,” Andy says, and Nile turns to her, mouth open to argue. Andy shakes her head. “I know, Nile,” she says, and the raw edge in her voice stops Nile from pushing. “I _know_ , and I’m as angry as you are. But right now, Booker needs us, and that’s going to take all the capacity we have. Alright?”

She’s using her Coach’s voice, but she’s not wrong. Nile bites down on her thoughts and nods. There’s a knock on the door and Joe pops his head in, takeout bags in hand.

“Let’s go to the cafeteria, Nile,” he says. “Nicky can stay with Booker, c’mon.”

Nile knows it’s irrational to refuse, so she follows Joe through the over-lit hallways, focusing on her feet. As they walk, Joe puts an arm around her, and Nile feels her composure crack against his warmth. The next breath she takes is ragged, and the one after that is a sob.

“Hey – _hey_ ,” Joe says, and pulls her into a little alcove. He drops his bags on the floor and wraps both arms around her as she presses her face against his chest, trying to stem the rising hysteria in her throat. Joe says soft words against her hair, a hand running up and down her back.

“I knew,” Nile says, words burning. “I _knew_ something was wrong. I just didn’t know _how_ wrong, fuck.”

“None of us did,” Joe says, and his voice is as raw as Andy’s had been. “And I’m kicking myself now, even though he should’ve said something. It’s going to feel like blame central on all sides, I think.”

Nile chokes out a laugh, and she feels Joe’s chest shake under her. 

“Joe,” she says, barely a whisper. “When I found him. When I found him...”

“Thank God you did,” Joe says fiercely, squeezing her tight. “You saved his life, Nile.”

Nile shakes her head.

“There was so much – there was so much blood and bile and he could barely breath,” Nile says, and Joe shudders. “But he still looked at me,” she says, “and he said _no_. He said, _just leave me_.”

“Well, you know we can’t trust a thing he says,” Joe says, but his voice is breaking, and they stand there for a long time, holding each other together.

\--

Booker wakes in a familiar fashion: groggy, clawing and regretting not staying unconscious. This time though, it feels like he’s been run over, and that his insides have been ripped out through his throat. When he tries to swallow, it burns so much he grasps at his throat, before a gentle hand closes around his wrist, drawing his arm back.

“Water?” Nicky’s voice asks, and Booker squints sideways, unable to focus. The lights aren’t bright, but his eyes still feel like they’re being stabbed. He nods, and feels Nicky lever his pillows up, raising his head before placing a cool glass into his hand. Booker can smell the medicinal tang immediately, and he almost drops it. Nicky’s hands close around his again.

“It’s a potion for your throat,” he says, calm and quiet. “It’s just to heal and soothe. That’s all. I checked.”

Ah. So. They knew. Booker drinks, painfully slow. When he finishes, Nicky takes the glass, and Booker tests out his voice. It’s not the first time Booker’s had his stomach pumped, but he hasn’t had it done the muggle way for a while. He wonders if Nicky knew they’d shoved an entire tube down his oesophagus. Nicky was so stereotypically horrified by muggle medicine; Booker still remembers his face when Nile had told him about craniotomies.

Booker tries to form a coherent sentence, but the only thing he ends up saying is,

“Nile?”

His eyes have adjusted enough for him to see Nicky’s face. His expression is inscrutable.

“She’s getting food with Joe,” he says. “She wanted to be here, of course, but she needed to eat.”

The shame that rises in Booker is so visceral that he feels like he’s going to throw up again. Nicky makes a move for the bowl next to the bed, but after a moment, Booker shakes his head and they both sit back.

“Is she okay?” he asks. Every word cuts his throat.

“She’ll be fine,” Nicky says, which isn’t a yes. “Don’t worry about her right now.”

Booker shakes his head. His face is burning, clogged and suffocating.

“She shouldn’t –” Booker says, and he chokes, tries again. “I didn’t want her to see – I didn’t – _fuck._ ”

He puts both hands over his face, pressing down. Tears leak out from under his palms anyway, and he grits his teeth, arms tensing. Nicky catches his wrists before he can hit himself in the head, and Booker fights him on reflex, but he’s so wrung out it makes little difference. Nicky lowers his arms down, hands gentle over Booker’s. Booker has a vivid memory of a much younger Nicky, lashing out in all his seventeen-year-old angst and stress; Booker catching his fists until Nicky had tired himself out. Oh, how different they’d been. Except Nicky had grown up, and grown up well, more mature now at twenty-seven than Booker has ever felt. Booker blinks, and Nicky’s looking at him, patient and waiting.

“She…” Booker says, hands convulsing under Nicky’s. “She shouldn’t have found me like that.”

“No,” Nicky says, “she shouldn’t have.”

Booker would’ve preferred Nicky just stab him.

“But,” Nicky continues, “thank God she did, Sébastien. _Thank God_.”

Booker stares up at the ceiling. He’s not sure what to say, or think, or do – only knows that merely breathing is threatening to crack him open, if he doesn’t stay still enough. He wants to be alone – no, he wants his family – no, he doesn’t have – he can’t ask his friends –

“And now we’re here,” Nicky says, in that infuriatingly factual way of his, when he’s both wise and right. “Here is what we focus on.”

“She must think –” Booker says, unsure why he keeps talking when it does nothing but burn his throat, his mouth, his mind. “I can’t imagine what she thinks.”

“She’ll think we did too little,” Nicky says, and Booker’s breath comes out like a gasp, too weak to protest. “She’ll wonder why you didn’t talk to us earlier. But most of all, she’ll be thinking about your recovery.”

“No,” Booker says, still staring upwards. He recognises the pattern on the hospital ceiling. “She’ll be thinking – she’ll be so…”

His hands grip at nothing, and he realises he’s reaching for a flask, and wants to hit himself again.

“Nile isn’t going to be anything but worried,” Nicky says, soft but firm, “She isn’t going to think any less of you, she isn’t going to stop caring about you –”

“You don’t _know that_ ,” Booker says, and the words rip out of his throat. He looks at Nicky then, and Nicky’s expression changes as he realises what Booker’s thinking. “Nicolas, I can’t have – another – please. I can’t.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, or asking for, but Nicky leans forward, hands on Booker’s shoulders.

“Sébastien,” he says. “Nile is not one of your sons. They were children, they were taken from you.” He squeezes as Booker’s shoulders begin to shake. “You need to rest, you need to look after yourself. Don’t hurt yourself more by thinking that way right now.” Nicky’s voice loses its steadiness as he says, “Please. Let us be here for you. We’ll figure out the rest together.”

He stays as Booker finally begins to cry in earnest, and he stays when Booker sinks back into sleep. It’s a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support from Part I. I hope you’re enjoying the expanding verse. 
> 
> All feedback welcome :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guard faces down their thirty-year Championship drought. Andy throws a wrench in Joe and Nicky’s burgeoning domesticity. Nile takes the team home for Thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I get summarily roasted for upping the chapter count again, I just want to make clear that I do have a very specific arc/end point for the ~~main~~ fic in mind, and that hasn’t changed! I simply underestimated what was needed to get there, and also didn’t want to overwhelm anyone with updates that are bigger than they already are. Hope y’all don’t mind!

Sébastien Le Livre, European Quidditch League veteran and Quidditch World Cup winner, retires quietly in November and promptly vanishes. At least, that’s the official story.

“Motherfucker,” Andy says, which is the only name she uses for Merrick, “tried to fire him.”

Nicky, Joe and Nile all curse, and Slater, the Guard’s Head of Legal, snorts from behind his desk. They’re all camped out in his office, supposedly to discuss Nile’s faux pas with the muggle hospital. Slater had just smiled at her and said without preamble,

“You did the right thing and we’ve got you covered, Nile.”

Nicky had squeezed Nile’s hand as she’d breathed out, because even if he’s never had the crippling anxiety of _they’ll take my wand_ , he always knows how to comfort her. They’d moved swiftly onto discussing Booker’s fate, which was already permeating the gossip mill.

“Merrick _tried_ to fire him,” Slater says, and shares a sharp grin with Andy. “We didn’t let him. Instead, Booker is retiring with a very sizeable severance package.”

Nile crosses her arms.

“Settlement money so we don’t go after Kozak?” she says, and Andy sighs.

“Kozak’s got more lawyers covering her than flies on a piece of shit,” she says. “And you know how that’ll go, Nile. At the end of the day, Booker’s the one who hid his issues. He’s the one who abused the Draught. They’ll run that argument into the ground.”

Nile presses her lips together. She knows. She hates it, but she knows. Even getting an early retirement deal for Booker is a rare win, thanks to Slater personally working overtime on Booker’s case. As a franchise, the Guard has a particular reputation: you can take the player out of the Guard, but you can’t take the Guard out of the player. Nile had not truly appreciated the extent of this sentiment until now, extending beyond the team to the crew and front office. Considering Booker had been their Keeper for a solid four seasons and integral to Andy’s rebuild of the team, the collective grief at his career’s demise is palpable. Everybody has a Booker story to share, especially those who’d also known Booker prior to the Guard. Nile wonders if Booker himself realises the influence he’s had across nearly two decades in the League.

The Alchemists release a statement, citing health reasons and asking for privacy. Fortunately and unfortunately, it’s not an unexpected end for Booker, even if the timing’s strange and lacks the traditional retirement ceremonies for a player with his record. Articles that read like obituaries start getting published. No Guard member asks Nile for details on what had happened, but the assumptions cut close. Her Chaser squad bands around her, distracting and comforting in equal turns, and their new PR intern, Caitlin, is scarily adept at redirecting reporters when they push her about Booker. Somebody had sighted them all at the hospital. Nile forgets, sometimes, how famous Joe, Nicky and Andy are in the wizarding world. It’s a particularly horrible way to be reminded.

What the press do not find out about, thank God, is Booker checking into a private clinic in Paris. Nile barely knows about it, which hurts even though she knows it’s not her business to bear. Andy has been with him, mainly. He is reticent to see even Joe and Nicky, and even more so with her. He had apologised to her so much his voice had gone hoarse, even though she assuages him every time. There’s more to it, in the way he can’t quite look at her, in the words he doesn’t say. Nicky says something vague about Booker and his family, which Nile doesn’t touch. She’ll wait.

When Andy tells them of Booker’s plan in December, Joe and Nicky both exhale, leaning close together.

“We’ll just have to visit him,” Nile says, already thinking about their game schedule. “And be in better contact.”

“We will,” Andy says. “But…” she sighs. “We’ve been here before. He tried different things when he was with us, but to try and do them while playing fulltime is…” she shakes her head. “This time has to be different.” She stands and looks out the window, as if she can see across the Channel to where Booker is. “He needs time, he needs space, he needs help. We’ve given him that.” She looks back at Nile, her face set. “It’s up to him now. We’ll be here when he figures it out.”

~*~

“Babe, have you seen –” Joe says, and his wallet floats over to him without Nicky even looking up from the couch. Joe grins and pockets it, trying to decide between jackets. March is finally warming up, but it’s been temperamental lately.

“Take the leather one,” Nicky says, and Joe hums in thanks as he pulls it on. Nicky does look at him then, and the expression on his face makes Joe smirk, sauntering over to where Nicky’s sitting.

“What’re you up to?” he asks, and Nicky shows him the papers he’s looking at.

“Alterations on Beaters’ bats,” he says. “They want me to test them before playoffs.”

“You nerd,” Joe says fondly, seeing the mass of comments Nicky’s scrawled over the diagrams. He takes the pages and promptly drops them on the coffee table so he can kiss Nicky against the couch cushions. He means for it to be sweet, as he really does have to go, but Nicky grins and pulls Joe flush against him, fingers finding skin, and Joe groans.

“I’m going to be late,” he says between kisses, and Nicky pulls back, laughing.

“Since when have you cared about that?” he asks. Joe sighs, sitting back to straighten his shirt.

“Since Caitlin’s been on my case,” he says.

“Joe,” Nicky says, hands still around Joe’s hips. “She’s like half your size, and an intern.”

“She’s a _menace_ ,” Joe says, and jumps as his castcomm buzzes. “See! That’ll be her right now.”

“I can’t believe a PR intern is disrupting my plans,” Nicky says.

“What plans?” Joe says, distractedly checking his messages.

“Oh, you know,” Nicky says, and his voice makes Joe look back at him. “I was thinking about blowing you right here on the –”

“Nope,” Joe says, scooting backwards and almost tripping over the coffee table. “Nope, I need to go and have a very important meeting, I can’t be thinking about _that_ –”

“Aren’t you just discussing how naked you’re getting for the photoshoot?” Nicky says, smirking, and Joe throws a pillow at him.

“ _No_ , Nicky,” he says, “it’s to discuss the brand’s _vision_ , and it’s for _art_.”

“You’re modelling underwear, Joe,” Nicky says, rolling his eyes.

“And am I not _art_ in underwear?” Joe asks, and makes for the door. “Hold that thought, I’ll be back in a couple hours!”

“Alright,” Nicky says, sounding smug. “I’ll be here. Thinking about you.”

Even now, it’s thrilling to leave Nicky in his house and know he’ll still be there when Joe returns. He’s used to home being a full house, and his place feels like that when Nicky’s there. Even before they got together, Nicky’s belongings had found their way next to his: a spare pair of running shoes, snacks hidden in his pantry, a hoodie that Joe ended up claiming. By now, Joe wouldn’t be surprised if most of Nicky’s stuff was at his. Maybe it’s selfish, but he loves that Nicky prefers his house, even if he bitches about tripping over Joe’s shoes and despairs at Joe’s inability to throw anything out. 

“Just because your place is barren,” Joe says, clutching an ugly teddy Zahra had made for him, complete with its own Guard uniform.

“I move around a lot,” Nicky says, trying to corner him. “And I don’t have a hoarding problem.”

Joe gasps, covering the teddy’s ears.

“How dare you?” he says, and Nicky rolls his eyes. “I keep things of _great sentiment_ , Nicky. Zahra’s making one for you as we speak. You going to tell her you threw it out?”

Nicky glares at him, because _of course not_ , and Joe smiles triumphantly. Two ugly teddies now sit together on his mantle.

It’s not smooth-sailing – their lives rarely are, doing what they do. Sometimes they have bad games or dumb accidents that send them both fuming off the pitch, sometimes at themselves, their team, the opposing team. Sometimes at each other. Sometimes, Joe slams away from Nicky, and sometimes Nicky withdraws into a solitary place that only gets more distant the more Joe pushes. 

But most of the time, they turn towards each other. Most of the time, they ground each other, even if it’s just a shared glance across the locker room, not needing to touch to know the other is there, steady and sure. In the aftermath of Booker, they both cycle through their own versions of rage and grief, Joe’s igniting in flares and burning out just as fast, Nicky’s quieter but more sustained. They rally around Andy, who’s more affected than she’ll ever admit, and step up as support for Nile and the rookies. They balance well, Joe looking after the offence and Nicky the defence. The team flourishes around them, and the Championship talk grows louder with every game. There’s no pausing a season, and Joe thinks he’d go mad without the quiet respite of Nicky, reading next to him after dinner, working out the knots in Joe’s back before bed, waking him up with coffee.

They make playoffs. They make it past Round Two this time, and then Three, and then – they’re in the League finals.

It’s a bruising series against the Firebirds, which is, ironically, the first team Nicky had played for in the EQL, and the team he’d won his first Championship with. The personal connection makes it both more interesting and more intense, and the Guard follow Nicky’s lead all the way to Game Seven. They’re all running on fumes and wilful determination at this point, and yet, the night before the final game, Joe can’t sleep.

Nicky usually alternates between sleeping at his own place before big games or in Joe’s guest bedroom, but during the final series, he’s been falling into Joe’s bed, asleep before Joe curls around him. Tonight, however, he turns over and runs his fingers down Joe’s face, brushing over his playoff beard.

“Sorry,” Joe says. “Do you want me to go sleep in –”

“No,” Nicky says, and kisses him softly, like they’re sharing a secret in the dark. “I can’t sleep either.”

“I can’t believe it’ll be over tomorrow,” Joe says, and Nicky hums, hands still moving. His fingers trace a well-worn map of Joe’s old injuries, even though most of them have technically healed. Joe’s hands do the same over Nicky, always coming back to cup the back of his head, fingers gentle against his scalp.

“It’s been…” Nicky says, and sighs.

“Quite the fucking season?” Joe says, and Nicky laughs against him, tangling their legs together.

“Yes,” he says. “Quite. But also one of the best seasons of my life, despite it all.”

Joe knows Nicky doesn’t mean the wins or his own numbers, even though both support his point.

“Me too,” he says, and pulls Nicky against him until they’re touching at every point. They’re far too exhausted for anything more, but he just wants to be as close to Nicky as he can, grounding them both.

“I really,” Nicky says into Joe’s hair, “ _really_ want to win tomorrow.”

“I thought you said it didn’t matter,” Joe teases, even though the mere idea of holding the Championship trophy makes his blood sing, no matter how tired he is. “As long as we did it together?”

Nicky runs his hands down Joe’s back.

“Of course,” he says. “But it’s always better with a win.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Joe says. “I really fucking want to win too.”

They lie quietly for a moment, just holding each other. Joe’s sore in more places than Celeste can keep up with, but every ache seems to quieten when they’re laying like this. Joe’s about to drift off when Nicky pulls back slightly. Joe can just make out his eyes in the darkness.

“Yusuf,” Nicky says. “I love you.”

Joe stares at him, entire body waking up in one fell swoop, before rolling over to switch on the bedside lamp. Nicky groans against the light, and Joe looks down at this remarkable, ridiculous, unfathomable man, squinting against the light with half his hair sticking up, and says,

“Nicolò, I _love you too_ , so much, fuck –” and kisses him, trying to press his words into Nicky’s lips, before kissing over his nose, his forehead, his cheekbones. Nicky laughs and bats at him, dorky in that way he only ever is around Joe.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” Joe says, and Nicky’s fingers tighten in his shirt.

“I have too,” he says. “I just took longer to – know how to name it. And when I realised, I knew you knew.” His hands find Joe’s heart. “I just wanted to say it. So you would hear it. No matter what.”

“Thank you,” Joe says, and kisses Nicky one last time before switching off the light. “And on that bombshell, we really must sleep. And people think _I’m_ the dramatic one, sheesh.”

“I wasn’t being dramatic,” Nicky says, rolling over so Joe’s curved around him, as the tradition goes. “Only honest.”

Joe grins into the back of Nicky’s neck.

“Alright, _ya amar_ ,” he says. “I love you too. Just being honest.”

They’re both asleep within minutes.

\--

They win.

Nicky’s flying by Joe when Joe takes off, silent and flat against his broom handle, and Nicky takes after him without a second thought. He hears the crowd gasp as they realise what’s happening, and Nicky’s ready to block the hand of God if he has to, just to let Joe reach the snitch safely. The other Seeker is streaking towards them, but it’s too late – Joe’s arm swings out and then he’s swerving upwards, snitch struggling in his fist.

The stadium erupts as the projection zooms in on Joe, clutching the snitch like he can’t quite believe it, despite the smile on his face. The rest of the Guard are flying towards them, either from the air or vaulting onto their brooms off the bench, and confetti is raining down on them in the Guard’s black and silver. Nicky brings his broom up next to Joe’s and smiles helplessly across at him. He knows this moment cements Joe’s legacy; the Seeker that broke the Guard’s thirty-year Championship drought.

Joe turns to Nicky, eyes wild and shining. Usually they would hug now, before the team envelopes them. Instead, Joe grins and yanks Nicky in by the chest guard, kissing him soundly in front of eighteen thousand people. Nicky tilts on his broom and kisses him back, the snitch caught in-between them. The crowd noise crescendos to an almighty degree, matching the roar in Nicky’s ears, and he feels Joe smile against his lips. He’s not sure if his heart can take it all.

A second later, Nile thumps them both on the back. She’s loop-de-looping around them with Olivia and June, still perfectly coordinated. Everyone is yelling in triumph, unable to sit still as the crowd celebrates beneath them.

“Alright, lovebirds!” Nile shouts. “Victory laps!”

They fall into formation as the team flies around the stadium, saluting. Joe, of course, does the dangerous thing and flies right over the heads of the crowd, high-fiving spectators with the hand not holding the snitch.

Nicky can still feel their kiss on his lips, mouth tingling with it as he smiles. Even as the team starts descending back to Earth, Nicky still feels like he’s floating. A game official is trying to convince Joe to let go of the snitch so they can lock it in its display case. Joe’s looking at him like he’s mad, and Nicky knows exactly how he feels, despite never having been a Seeker.

“ _Tesoro_ ,” he says, walking up beside him, and Joe turns, eyes wide. There’s so much noise all around them it’s hard to think at all. “You can let go now. They’ll give it back to you at the trophy ceremony.”

“I…” Joe says, wondering, and Nicky grips his arm until Joe’s eyes refocus. “Oh!” Joe says, and looks at his own fist, still clenched so tightly it’s shaking. “Oh, of course. Sorry,” he says to the game official, who’s grinning at them both.

“That’s very common, don’t worry,” he says. “Take your time now, your fingers might have cramped.”

Joe slowly uncurls his fist over the box, and the moment the snitch drops down, the game official snaps the glass lid shut.

“Thank you, Mr al-Kaysani, Mr Genovese,” he says, nodding at them both. “That game was an honour to watch.”

Nicky takes Joe’s hand as they stand, waiting, taking it all in. He carefully massages Joe’s palm over the glove, before slowly extending each finger and stretching out the hand. Joe watches him, and for once, not even the great wordsmith Yusuf al-Kaysani has the words to express how happy they both are, to be together in this perfect, perfect moment.

\--

Championship celebrations are…beyond wild.

Joe knows it’s a nightmare for multiple branches of management, both within the League and the MLEP. Fans are apparating en masse to any bar that sights Guard players, and the crowds spill between magical and muggle venues, too boisterous to be contained by either.

He and Nicky make out in every dark corner they can find. The cat’s well and truly out of the bag, so Joe intends to enjoy it. Nicky is drunk in a way he rarely allows himself to get in public, and he keeps stopping to say “ _Porca puttana, ti amo così tanto,”_ and “ _Sei la cosa più fantastica che mi sia capitate –_ ” between kisses. Joe can barely hear him over the pounding music, which is probably for the best considering how he usually gets when Nicky speaks Italian to him while making out.

At their sixth bar of the night, Joe finds Caitlin perched in a corner booth, eyes flitting between players. He still believes she would’ve made a great Seeker in another life. Instead, she’s stuck babysitting a bunch of overgrown athletes, losing their minds on a potent mix of triumph, alcohol and fatigue.

“You okay?” Joe asks, sliding into the seat next to her. She’s nursing a drink that smells very non-alcoholic and extremely caffeinated. She nods, but he knows her well enough to raise an eyebrow. “People been giving you trouble?” he asks, and she sighs.

“It’s a bar,” she says, and then rolls her shoulders back. “Nothing I can’t handle, don’t worry. You should be enjoying your night!” She gives him a rueful smile. “Don’t mind me. I just don’t have a high clubbing tolerance.”

“You should be having fun too,” Joe says. “You’re just as much a part of this win, Caity.”

Caitlin laughs.

“Says the guy who caught the snitch,” she says. “I’m surprised you’re sober enough to talk right now, with the number of drinks people are buying you.”

“Eh, I just pawn them off to Nicky,” Joe says, and then pauses. “I should probably stop doing that.”

“He looks like he’s having fun,” Caitlin says, pointing. Nicky’s currently dancing with Nile, loose and languid but very much in sync. More than a few people are staring, and Joe grins.

“He’s so talented,” he says, and Caitlin rolls her eyes and pours Joe a glass of water.

“Thank you,” Joes says, “for looking after the team this season. Me especially. Me and Nicky. I know that took more work than you let on.”

“Yes, which you ruined by going public at the most-watched moment of the final,” Caitlin says, but she’s smiling. “I know you didn’t think it through –”

Joe laughs, because she really does know him too well.

“– but it might just work out, actually. Everyone’s more focused on the win.”

“As they should be,” Joe says, nodding in satisfaction.

“ _But_ ,” Caitlin says, and gives him a look that no twenty-two-year-old should be capable of, “things will change now. Just – don’t get papped having sex over the summer, okay? Front office needs a holiday too.”

Joe has a vivid, split-second vision of Nicky on top of him, head thrown back, before Caitlin jabs him in the side.

“Ow! Okay, message received, no sex tapes,” he says, and she nods, prim, before her lips twitch and she snorts, which sets Joe off, and then they’re laughing until the team finds them and drags them both onto the dance floor.

~*~

When Joe arrives home in Tunis, he gets a two second hug from Zahra before she’s pushing him aside to stare at the front door.

“Well?” she says after a moment, hands on her hips. “Where’s Nicky?”

“What?” Joe says. “He’s in Italy?”

“You didn’t bring him home?’ Zahra says, as if Joe’s personally failed her.

“I –” Joe starts, and looks around at Ayesha and Amira for help. They’re both glaring at him too. “I didn’t know I was…meant to?” he says weakly, and they all let out identical noises of exasperation. “He’s got his own stuff to sort out! You know how hectic Championship summers are. We thought it’d be easier –” he stops, putting his hands on his own hips. “Hang on, all of you were hating on him last summer! You can’t act all offended _now_.”

“Uh, yes we can,” Zahra says. “Last summer was _before_ you two had been married for a season and then _made out in front of the entire stadium_ , dumbass.”

“We aren’t –” Joe says, “we didn’t – okay, so we _did_ kiss, but I’d just won the game, for fuck’s sake –”

“Language!” Mariam says, coming in through the back door with impeccable timing. Joe glares at Zahra before going to his mother.

“I’m getting bullied again,” he says to her. “They all hated Nicky and now they’re expecting me to have brought him home.”

“Wait,” Mariam says, looking around him. “You didn’t?”

Joe throws up his hands as his sisters all make vindicated noises.

“I cannot win,” Joe says. “You were _all_ calling him the Italian Nightmare last summer, remember?”

“That’s before you kissed him on camera,” Mariam says, and Joe groans. “I thought you two were keeping it quiet?”

“We did for an entire season,” Joe says. “But as I was _saying_ , we’d just won –”

“Oh hey, Yusuf,” Ibrahim says, appearing at the backdoor and taking off his shoes. “Welcome home. Is that Beater of yours with you?”

~*~

When they reunite at the end of July, Joe looks at Nicky making panna cotta in Joe’s t-shirt and shorts, humming along with the muggle speaker Nile had given them and says,

“Move in with me.”

Nicky stops, a slow smile spreading across his face as Joe walks towards him.

“Ask nicely,” he says, putting down the whisk.

“Nicolò,” Joe says, putting his arms around Nicky’s neck. Nicky’s hands find his hips, and they automatically sway a little, in time with the music. “Light of my life, love of my heart, even when you make me run at six in the morning, will you move in with me?”

“I was hoping you would ask,” Nicky says, eyes closing as he leans his forehead against Joe’s. “Though I think I’ve infiltrated this place pretty thoroughly already.”

“Ah, your evil plans are finally coming to fruition, then,” Joe says, and kisses him. Nicky makes a noise against his lips and pulls him in. Dessert gets well and truly forgotten. The kitchen gets messy regardless.

Nicky moving in mirrors them getting together – it still thrills Joe to make it official, but they also slide easily into it, as it’s not that different from what they’ve been doing for a year already. They still mark the occasion by fucking in every room and on every available surface, but Joe’s pretty sure that’s mandatory. Joe can’t stop smiling when Nicky updates his address with front office, and starts planning a pre-season housewarming for the team, despite it being the same house.

Their domestic bliss comes to a screeching halt in August when Andy calls them into front office.

“What’s happened?” Joe says as Caitlin joins them. “I kept my word, there were no sex tapes over summer!”

Nicky chokes on his water, and Caitlin thumps him on the back, shaking her head.

“And as grateful as we are for that,” she says, “this is actually about Nicky. You’re just here by proxy.”

“You’re so sweet,” Joe says before Andy clears her throat, looking amused. It’s a dangerous look on her.

“Firstly, welcome back,” she says. “I’m happy to report minimal damages over summer, except Olivia nearly losing the Championship trophy in the Australian outback, which Caitlin tells me we’re pretending never happened.”

“Of course,” Joe says, mentally making a note to hear that story as soon as possible.

“Now, Nicky,” Andy says, and Nicky sits up. “It’s your third season with us now, and I think it’s about time you pulled your weight.”

Nicky barely raises an eyebrow, and they all laugh. Andy waves her hand.

“Your performance aside, you gave the rookies a lot of extra support last season, and it really showed.”

“I helped too,” Joe interjects, and Caitlin snorts.

“You lead a lot of pranks, you mean,” she says, and Joe grins.

“I oversaw team bonding,” he says. “Made sure they didn’t overstep. That’s important, Caity.”

“You were both great,” Andy says grudgingly. “As you know, we’re bringing up a new Beater from the Youth League this season.”

“Huang, right?” Nicky says. “I’ve watched his tapes. Very promising.”

“Yes, him,” Andy says, nodding. “We know you’ll be a great mentor for him, Nicky. But we were also thinking he should billet with you.”

Nicky looks immediately at Joe, surprise reflecting back at each other. Of course, billeting was a rite of passage, and they’re both experienced enough to take a rookie, but they hadn’t thought –

“That okay?” Andy asks, looking between them. It’s not really a question; it’s part of how the team works, after all. Joe doesn’t think _but we love having sex in any room at any given moment_ is going to change things. Andy’s smirking like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Of course, Andy,” Nicky says, and Joe makes a face at him.

“We’re too young for rookies,” he mutters.

“You’re not,” Caitlin says, and honestly, he should never have recommended her return.

“I’m still young!” he says, and he can tell Nicky’s trying not to laugh. “I’m barely thirty.”

“You’re turning thirty-one this season,” Caitlin says. Joe gasps and glares at her.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Andy says to Nicky. “That’s great. Caitlin’s returning in a split role between PR and management this season, so she’ll be able to brief you before he arrives and help with anything from there.”

Joe grumbles about it good-naturedly as they clear out a guest bedroom. Nicky laughs at his whining but is otherwise quiet.

“What is it, _albi_?” Joe asks, the night before their rookie arrives. Nicky keeps rearranging the couch cushions like the boy is actually going to care about them.

Nicky doesn’t bother denying something’s on his mind, just takes a moment to form his thoughts. Joe steps up behind him and wraps his arms around Nicky’s waist. Nicky hums in appreciation and leans against him.

“I want him to be happy here,” Nicky says. “My rookie year with…with Booker and his family…”

Joe’s arms tighten, and Nicky turns his head to press a kiss against Joe’s temple. No matter what else is happening in their lives, Booker is never far from their minds.

“I didn’t realise it then, but they were so important to that year. And after too. They taught me so much that I’ve only realised later. Even now.”

“Like what?” Joe asks gently. Nicky doesn’t speak much of his time with Booker’s family, in the _before_ of Booker’s life. Booker’s family had remained relatively anonymous on account of being muggle; the wizarding public just knew that Booker had sacrificed a year at the height of his career to care for his wife. She’d passed before the year was over. Nicky had told Joe, in the darkness of their bedroom, that Booker had lost all three sons that year too, his in-laws taking custody as he’d spiralled into grief.

“I didn’t know how to speak to him,” Nicky had whispered. “We won the Championship the year he took off, my fourth year. They traded him to the Guard when he returned.”

Joe had joined the Guard a season after Booker. He’d never heard the details or pushed for them; just tried to help Booker drink less and move forward. And Booker had seemed so good at it, too. It twists at Joe, to wonder if all the happy memories he’d shared with Booker sat under a façade.

Here in their living room, Nicky leans his head against Joe’s and says,

“The Le Livre’s were the first happy family I ever knew,” and his voice is so matter of fact Joe knows Nicky doesn’t mean for it to hurt. It still does. “Booker and Corinne – I’d never seen two people so in love. And not like in the movies. Actually in love, and so loving with their children, even though they were all terrors.” His fingers find Joe’s, tangling together. “They were so tired all the time,” he says, voice soft. “But they never took it out on each other, or the kids. They were always so kind to me. Even though I was a…difficult teenager.”

“You, difficult?” Joe says, voice light. “Never.”

Nicky laughs, squeezing Joe’s hands.

“I know it’s not so serious,” he says, “but I just want our rookie to have a home here. Starting in the League isn’t easy for anyone.”

“Hey, he’s _your_ rookie,” Joe says. “I just happen to also live here.”

“Sure,” Nicky says, amused. “We’ll see how long that attitude lasts for.”

\--

Chris Huang arrives by tripping over a bag handle in his haste to shake hands, and promptly spilling his entire protein shake over Nicky’s favourite blue shirt. It’s actually Joe’s shirt, which he knows makes this a hundred times worse to Nicky. But as Nicky wipes green shake off his chin, Joe sees him aim for humour. What Nicky says is:

“I hope you’re more graceful in the air.”

Chris looks like he’s rapidly descending through hell. Caitlin saves them all by whipping out her wand to clean Nicky off, studiously avoiding eye-contact with Joe.

“Anyway,” she says, lips twitching, “welcome to the team, Chris.”

“Nice to meet you,” Nicky says, trying to return to civility.

“Thank you, sir,” Chris says miserably, and Joe has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face.

“Call me Nicky,” Nicky says with his awkward meet-and-greet smile. “I’ve been reviewing your tapes, Chris. Great Youth run.”

Chris’ eyes widen like he’s flashing back to every bad play he’s ever made. Nicky continues, because he’s been talking Joe’s ear off about Chris’ performance and is evidently not done.

“Your SOB numbers are good, but we need to raise your HPT. That’s typical, don’t worry. Also, you’ve been avoiding your left side in your last few games – is that an injury we should be aware of or a lack of ambidexterity?”

Chris’ mouth goes slack. Joe forgets people aren’t used to the way Nicky talks, poor bastard. 

“Okay,” he says, putting an arm around Nicky and smiling at Chris. “I’m starving. Why don’t we go home and get you settled in first, and then talk Quidditch over dinner?”

“I was going to suggest that,” Nicky says defensively, and Joe laughs and squeezes his shoulders.

“Alright. Let me get some of these.”

He picks up one of Chris’ bags before he can protest, and several heavy somethings tumble over inside.

“Jesus, kid,” Joe says, hefting it. “What have you got in here?”

“Uh, textbooks,” Chris says, looking pained.

“Chris is coming from the Uni track,” Caitlin says, “but we called him up early so he’ll be finishing his studies part-time while he starts with us.” She gives Joe and Nicky a very significant look. “Chris is coming from _Cambridge_ , gentlemen.”

Joe whistles. Chris goes red. Nicky looks vague and says,

“Oh…that’s one of the muggle-magic adjacent institutes, isn’t it?”

Chris’ eyes dart to Joe as he tries to figure out if Nicky’s being serious or pulling his leg. Joe tries to silently convey the fact that Nicky is such a born-and-bred Quidditch-playing machine that he isn’t familiar with Cambridge being one of the most prestigious tertiary institutions for wizards and muggles alike. Caitlin looks incredulous.

“ _Yes_ , Nicky,” she says, and Joe raises his eyebrows at her. She’s…impressed. _Nothing_ impresses Caitlin.

“Is that wise?” Nicky asks, frowning. Joe knows he’s saying it out of concern, but Chris now looks like he’s reconsidering every life choice he’s ever made.

“Andy’s approved it,” Caitlin says, because she always knows what they need to hear, and Nicky nods, mollified. Chris does not look assured. He is very quiet when they show him around the house, and he stares at Nicky with the face of someone who’s seeing their idol walk out of a poster frame. His expression with Joe is much the same, and he keeps looking between them like he’s caught in a fever dream.

Things somehow get worse over dinner. Nicky’s made pasta al pesto from scratch, because it’s the homeliest meal he knows and always a team favourite. He pauses as he’s heaping Chris’ plate, because Chris is looking increasingly queasy but also determinedly silent.

“What is it, Chris?” Joe asks, torn between amusement and sympathy.

Chris looks down at the table and then says, in the air of someone making a murder confession,

“I’m lactose intolerant.”

Nicky puts the serving bowl down. He looks like he just _heard_ a murder confession. Joe can feel his composure cracking.

“Oh…dear…” he says, unable to decide which angle to take. “Well –”

“It’s fine!” Chris says, even though his expression clearly says it’s not. “I mean, I can get lactose pills, I just don’t have them on me right now –”

“No, it’s fine,” Nicky says, levitating all of their dishes back to the kitchen like they’re personally offending him. “We can get takeout.” He nudges Joe to sort delivery options, before focusing back on Chris. “Let me get you a drink first.” He points his wand at the wine cooler, which is one of the few treasured possessions Nicky had moved in with. “What do you like, Chris?”

Chris takes a deep breath.

“I can’t drink alcohol,” he says, and it’s the last straw – Joe bursts out laughing, and then keeps going when both Chris and Nicky turn to him with utterly betrayed expressions. This season is going to be _great_.

~*~

“– so rather than the usual formation of June and Olivia bracketing you as you come out of the Wyndham,” Booker says, sketching a diagram with his hands, “practice utilising that free space for feinting. And talk to Andy about non-dominant throws. Otherwise Keepers will get used to your tells.”

Nile scribbles furiously for another moment before putting her pen down. She’s going to need another notebook soon and October’s only just ending.

“Thanks,” she says, and Booker shrugs.

“Just saying what I see. You’ve improved a lot though, since…you’ve improved a lot. Well done.”

She looks at his face through the castcomm projection. It’s been just over a year since the incident; a year that’s both flown and crawled by. She’d won a Championship. He’d left the clinic. She’d started a new season. He’d bought a cottage in Burgundy.

She’s relieved to see he’s started putting on weight again, looking more like his old – well, older – self. There had been a terrifying couple of months where he’d been almost unrecognisable. He hadn’t let them visit the clinic, and barely called until he left in May, when they’d been deep into playoffs. As the new season had started, however, Nile has been coaxing him into more calls by asking him about her play, which he’s always been a sucker for.

“You’re really good at this,” she says, and then hesitates. “Have you…thought about coaching? Not necessarily in the League, though I’m sure that’s an option.”

Booker looks away.

“I –” he starts, and sighs. “I’m not sure. It was…such a relief to be away from it all, you know?” He looks back at her like he’s just said something blasphemous and expects to be struck down.

“I mean, you can also just enjoy retirement,” she says, even though a small part of her wants to say _so you’re really not coming back?_ She knows everyone’s time comes to an end, but it’s never real until it’s already happened. “You deserve it.”

Booker laughs, dry and self-deprecating.

“Maybe,” he says. “But I can’t just do nothing.”

“Nothing sounds heavenly, sometimes,” Nile says, stretching and wincing. She’d fumbled a quaffle catch during practice and her side still aches from the hit.

“I’ve been approached about commentating,” Booker says, and she sits up. “Or analyst work. Couple of broadcast roles.”

“Dude,” Nile says, grinning. “That would be amazing! You’d be such a nice change from some of the idiots doing it right now.”

“Maybe,” Booker says, vague, and she drops it, making a mental note to discuss it with Andy. A _maybe_ isn’t a no. A _maybe_ is progress. “How’s the team?” Booker says, because as much as he says he’s away from the game, that doesn’t mean the people too. “I’m getting some very existential messages from Joe about Nicky’s rookie.”

Nile laughs.

“Everyone’s roasting them about being Chris’ dads,” she says. “Joe was taking the rookies out, you know,” she says, and Booker nods. That had been his and Joe’s sacred duty, back in the day. “And the team overheard Nicky telling him off because Chris had a paper due.”

Booker laughs, loud and booming, and Nile sees him – the Booker she’d first met as a rookie herself.

“Bet that’s making him feel real old,” Booker says, and Nile nods.

“Joe’s trying to combat it by being _cool dad_ ,” she says, and Booker snorts. “Poor Chris, honestly. I can’t imagine playing full time, studying _and_ billeting with two of my heroes. One would be bad enough.”

“Surely he’s realised they’re just dweebs by now,” Booker says. “Though I assume he’s being hazed to hell and back.”

Nile makes a face.

“He makes it too easy,” she says. “And every time people ask him about living with Joe and Nicky, he gets this haunted expression that just makes everyone _more_ shit-stirring.”

“Just another day with the Guard,” Booker says, and for a second, his face twists. Nile clears her throat and asks the question she’s been waiting to ask.

“Hey,” she says, “since you’re gainfully unemployed at the moment, you’re free towards the end of November, right?”

Booker narrows his eyes at her.

“Depends,” he says. “What’s up?”

“I get to go home for Thanksgiving,” she says, and feels herself grin just saying it. “And I’m dragging you all with me. Come have a proper American holiday with us, Booker!”

Booker looks so stunned that she falls silent, waiting. Finally, he says,

“Thought you’d want to get away from the team.”

“Eh, I’m doing them a favour,” she says, keeping her voice light. “Chris needs a parent-free weekend; even Andy needs to leave the pitch once in a while. Your French accent’s getting ridiculous. Come take a break.”

He blinks at her. She sits on her hands, trying not to fidget.

“Well, thank you for the invite,” he says slowly. She raises an eyebrow at him. “Can I…think about it?” he says, and his voice is so uncertain she nods.

“Sure,” she says. “Just asking you now so you can get a good deal on portkeys.”

“Alright,” he says, and the corners of his mouth are lifting, just a little. “Now, go put more salve on that hit you’re not telling me about, and get to bed.”

“Wow, okay, Mr I-won’t-coach,” Nile says, rolling her eyes. Booker laughs.

“And tell me how that rookie goes,” he says. “Any bets on him making a fatal prank yet?”

~*~

“Kid,” Joe says, and Chris jumps so violently he almost trips over his own feet. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Chris swears, and then looks so scared that Joe takes pity on him and smiles, taking a seat at his own locker space and gesturing for Chris to sit down. It’s almost comical how fast he complies.

“Last year’s rookies really chucking you in the deep end, huh,” Joe says, and Chris sighs, looking down at the ground. Joe hopes he hadn’t looked this tired at twenty-two. “What’s the prank, steal Nicky’s broom and take it for a joy ride?” Joe asks, and then whistles as Chris nods. “Good Lord, we need to have a chat with those idiots. That’s beyond a death wish.”

Chris goes pale. Joe tries another tactic.

“Do you know why Nicky’s broom is so special?” he says, and Chris sits up.

“It’s the only _Genovese 10_ that exists,” he recites. “It uses the same core model he’s been flying on since he was seventeen and is the basis of his elite line with _Fazioli_ , which is the only brand he flies with.” He stops, looking at Joe like he’s expecting a grade.

“He also designed a kids’ line with them,” Joe says, smiling. He’s never gotten over the sight of Nicky chasing after toddlers as they zoom around on _Pandino_ brooms, constantly bouncing into his knees. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

Chris gives Joe a weird look and Joe clears his throat.

“Anyway,” he says, “you know it’s a fully manual broom?”

Chris blanches.

“I thought it was only partially manual,” he says, sounding nauseous. Joe knows how he feels. The modern automatics are built with unbreakable balancing, braking and flight correction charms; most of the younger players cannot even imagine flying without it. And that’s just the mechanics. The folklore is another thing altogether.

“Nope,” Joe says. “One of the last full manuals in the League. Can you imagine why Nicky prefers it?”

Chris nods, the academic question dissipating some of his nerves.

“Far more flexibility and precision,” he says, “if you can handle the broom. Doesn’t hinder you from making crazy hits. A lot riskier for it, though.”

“Right,” Joe says. “And you know how good brooms respond to you?”

Chris nods again.

“There’s much more of a dialogue with a manual,” Joe says, “and that one,” he points to Nicky’s broom, hanging innocently against the wall, “ _only_ talks to Nicky.” He laughs. “I tried to ride it once, last season,” he says, and sees Chris’s brain form the obligatory joke before self-preservation kicks in. “And it bucked me off mid-air, and then hit me for trying.”

Chris gives him a sceptical look, and Joe gestures with one hand.

“Go ahead if you don’t believe me,” he says. “See how long you last.”

Chris puts his face in his hands. 

“Oh my God,” he says, muffled. “This is so much worse than the cheese thing. Thank God you caught me.”

Joe laughs.

“You’ll learn what pranks to take and what to say no to. There’s daring, and then there’s suicidal.”

“As if you’d know the difference,” Chris says, and then slaps a hand over his own mouth. Joe grins at him.

“Fair enough,” he says, “but I know this one. Don’t fuck with Nicky’s gear or his routines if you want to live.”

Chris nods vigorously.

“Thank you,” he says. “for saving me.”

“I mean,” Joe says, smirking, “it’s not all altruistic. I have to get into bed with him, I don’t want a rookie prank to ruin that.”

Chris looks slightly nauseous again. A moment later, Nicky comes out of the showers, pulling his shirt on over his head. He smiles when he sees Joe, and then frowns at the sight of Chris, who looks like an overgrown deer in headlights.

“Chris, you know you can go home before us,” he says. “You don’t have to wait.”

“I was just imparting some wisdom on him,” Joe says, winking at Chris. 

“He’s my rookie, not yours,” Nicky says, picking up his bag and then, carefully, his broom. “Don’t listen to a word he says,” Nicky says to Chris, who nods until Joe raises his eyebrows at him.

As they walk through the bowels of the stadium, Nicky squeezes Chris’ shoulder.

“I was checking your stats with Andy earlier,” he says, because of course he had been, “and your hit percentage on target has gone up twenty points since August.” He smiles as Chris’ eyes widen. “That’s a better increase than when I first started. Really well done.”

Chris looks like Nicky’s handing him the winning lotto ticket.

“Thank you,” he says, and then immediately switches to nerd mode. “But am I losing out on force from focusing too much on target accuracy, or is that good for the League’s official stance on hits? But if we’re following League sentiment then surely accuracy would be defined differently…”

Joe zones out and watches as Nicky and Chris start debating. Nicky’s a gesticulator when he’s enthused, and Chris is the same when he forgets he’s talking to _Nicolò Genovese_ and just gets into it. Joe realises that Chris has picked up more of Nicky’s mannerisms when talking stats, and smiles as Chris rebuts one of Nicky’s points, hands waving. He never would’ve dared to two months ago. Chris turns back to him and says,

“Joe, help me out, Nicky thinks my HPT ratio for player hits is too low. You know the League’s cracking down on foul percentages –”

“Well, you know” Nicky says with that barely detectable smirk, “back in _Andromache’s_ day –”

“Oh come _on_ –!” Chris says, throwing his hands up, and both Joe and Nicky laugh, catching each other’s eye. Maybe, Joe thinks, this rookie thing isn’t so bad after all.

~*~

“Holy shit, _Nile Freeman_?”

The Chicago portkey terminal is packed, but the call is loud enough that they all turn. A pack of frat bros has paused by them at the exits, squinting at her. They’re all so tall she can’t miss them. She feels Joe, Nicky and Andy quietly flank her, reflexive even off pitch.

“…yes?” she says. Their faces clear, and several mouths drop open.

“Dude!” the one in a Hawks jersey says, walking closer. “Congrats on the Championship. _Huge_ fan.”

“Oh!” Nile says, feeling herself snap into media mode. “Oh, thank you.”

“D’you mind –” another one asks, castcomm in hand, and Nile smiles, running a quick hand over her hair.

“Not at all,” she says, and they all grin. Nile can hear Andy laughing quietly behind her.

“Could you –” the boy asks, turning to Joe, and then does another double take. “Oh, what the _hell_!”

They all end up taking photos, even Andy.

“Coach, when you gonna give our girl the A?” Hawks guy asks, and Andy laughs, clapping Nile on the back.

“Maybe after a couple more Championships,” she says, and the boys all hoot.

“You’ll play for a States team in the Translantic Sweep though, right?” one asks Nile as she signs his cap. 

“I’ll have to get picked first,” she says, and they all give her a nonplussed look.

“That’s a given,” another says, and Nile laughs, trying not to look too pleased.

The Guard all give her shit as they merge into muggle Chicago, where she ultimately has the last laugh when she makes them all take the L. It’s good to be home.

\--

Nile forgets how much wizards can stick out in muggle homes until Nicky takes the TV remote Ty hands him and the flatscreen showers them with gold sparks. Nicky curses and jumps back, dropping the remote in favour of his wand. After a moment, the TV goes dark again, and still seems to work when Ty switches it on.

“Okay, no computers for you,” he says, and Nicky slowly lowers his wand before looking very sheepish.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but Ty just smiles and waves a hand.

“You should’ve seen what Nile put our electronics through when she was younger,” he says, and Nile rolls her eyes. “She still owes me an iPod.”

When Nile checks in on her mother, she finds Anipe chatting away to Andy and Joe as she continues prepping dinner. Joe is doggedly trying to help by manually peeling potatoes. She can tell he’s itching for his wand, but they’d promised to full-muggle it, and they’re nothing if not stubborn. Seeing Andy interacting with Anipe is a truly surreal experience: two women who could not be more different, and yet somehow very similar. There’s a quiet deference on Andy’s face that strikes Nile between her ribs; a respect that’s also tender enough to temper Andy’s usual hard edge. Anipe looks over and smiles at Nile, who walks over and hugs her, brief but tight. She has a lot of hugs to catch up on.

“Nile, didn’t you say we were expecting one more?” Anipe says, and Nile glances at Andy before saying,

“Yes, but I think he’s running late.” She pulls out her castcomm. No messages since they’d left England. “We’ve got enough for seven, right?”

“Of course, baby,” Anipe says, sounding offended, and Nile laughs, but she keeps checking her castcomm as the afternoon turns into evening. She can’t help but smile though; her mother’s golden oldies playlist serenades them as they take turns helping Anipe, who keeps offering them all snacks and then telling Ty off for ruining his appetite.

They’re setting the table when the intercom buzzes. Nile throws up her hands, but she’s by the device in an instant.

“What time do you call this?” she says, and they hear Booker’s laugh, sheepish over the speakers.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Turns out cross-continental portkeys are hard to get around Thanksgiving.”

When he steps through the door a minute later, they all stare. He looks…good, albeit a little flustered. His hair and beard are neatly groomed, and underneath his winter coat, he’s in a fitted blue dress shirt and pants that don’t ruck around the ankles. He’s carrying a bottle of sparkling grape juice in one hand, and a beautiful bouquet of flowers in the other.

“Mom,” Nile says after hugging him, “this is Booker. Booker, my mom, Anipe, and my brother, Ty.”

Booker presents Anipe with the flowers after shaking Ty’s hand, and Anipe dimples before looking uncertain.

“I don’t think we have a vase big enough,” she says, and Booker says,

“Would you mind if I drew up a vase?”

Anipe shakes her head, and Booker pulls out his wand in a way wizards usually don’t: slowly, and always in plain sight. He conjures an off-white ceramic to match the décor, and places it on the side table, filling it with water before arranging the bouquet. Anipe’s eyes go wide, but she smiles when Booker turns back to her.

“Thank you,” she says, and then claps her hands together. “You’re just in time for dinner!”

Their dining table is actually too small – Booker looks uncertain as he realises this, and then pained when Joe conjures up a chair for him that’s comedically too small.

“What?” Joe says innocently as Nicky and Andy snort. “Nothing else will fit!”

“Thanks, Joe,” Booker says drily, and squishes into the chair, squeezing between Nile and Nicky.

There’s barely enough room left to eat on when all the dishes are brought over. Anipe’s hovering on her feet until Nile gently sits her down. They say grace, which everyone else gamely holds hands and closes their eyes for, before dinner officially commences. Nile and Ty immediately battle over the mac and cheese, and she can see Nicky nudging Joe as he enthusiastically piles every option onto his plate.

“Now,” Anipe says, and everyone looks at her, mouths bulging. “Because my children could never wait to eat, we can go around the table now and say what we’re all thankful for, if everyone’s comfortable with that?”

Nile realises the only person she hasn’t warned about this is Booker, who looks surprised but nods along with everyone else. Ty starts. He’s thankful for new computer parts and Nile not making him run during Thanksgiving. Andy’s next to him, and she says,

“I’m thankful to be here with new friends, current and old,” with more sincerity than Nile expects. Joe opens his mouth and both Andy and Booker say in unison,

“Keep it _short_ , Yusuf,” which cracks everyone up.

“Alright, killjoys,” Joe says, mock-offended. “I’m grateful for…” he begins, and then looks at Nicky like it’s a reflex. Nile can tell they’re holding hands under the table. “I’m grateful for love,” he says, and his face is too earnest to mock. “In all its forms. Even when they ruin the entire speech I practiced for this.”

Nicky says, “I’m thankful for whatever brought us all together. I feel very lucky.”

Booker is next, and Nile feels him tense as everyone looks at him. He clears his throat and says,

“I’m…thankful to be here.”

It’s brief, but Nile feels every word against her heart, and she squeezes Booker’s hand as Nicky squeezes his other. Her turn, next.

“I’m thankful I’ve got you all as my team,” she says, and they all smile at her, fierce and bright. 

Anipe’s looking quite misty-eyed as she says,

“Well, I’m also thankful that Nile has you all.” She takes Nile’s hand, and their callouses match. “It’s hard…not knowing what she’s up to, when it all sounds so dangerous.” She smiles around the table. “But meeting all of you makes me feel a lot better. Nile’s always telling me how much she loves you all –”

“ _Mom_ ,” Nile says, tipping her head back in horror, and everyone laughs.

“– so thank you. And may you all continue to take care of each other, and you’re all welcome back anytime.”

They all sound their enthusiasm and dig back in. Anipe looks increasingly satisfied as she realises how much Quidditch players can eat, and quietly pleased as the team heap compliments on her. Ty asks the team for stories about Nile and listens attentively to each one. At first, Nile thinks he’s looking for embarrassing material, but as she watches his face, she realises he’s asking so he can fill in the blanks of her life, hoarding the wider details she can’t give as a first-person participant.

A pattern forms: Joe narrating, Nicky correcting, Andy commentating, and Booker, quietly adding explanations for Anipe and Ty when the others speak too quickly and forget what muggles wouldn’t know. Booker does it with a tact that speaks of well-worn practice, and she’s fiercely grateful as Ty laughs, egging Joe on. Booker’s still a little hunched next to her, but he’s smiling and he’s _here_. They’re all here, miraculously; all the people she loves crammed into her favourite place. She finds her mother giving her a knowing smile, and has to try very hard not to tear up.

They take a much-needed intermission between dinner and dessert. Ty convinces Joe that a walk will resuscitate their appetite, and Andy tags along, apparently impervious to the cold. Nicky escapes to the kitchen with Anipe. Nile looks at Booker and says,

“Let me show you something.”

Booker smiles when she opens the door to her old room.

“Cute,” he says, nodding at the battered little dollhouse that still sat on her shelf.

“Yeah,” Nile says, walking over to her desk. “I was adamant it was just as cool as the wizarding dollhouses. Didn’t want mom paying for something so overpriced anyway.”

“Smart kid,” Booker says. He sits on the edge of her bed, hands on his knees. “I’m sorry I was late,” he says, looking down at her carpet. “That was rude of me.”

“Couldn’t decide?” Nile asks, and Booker raises one shoulder.

“Unsure how I’d feel,” he says. “Being around…I’m working on it. But that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

“You came in the end,” Nile says. “That’s what matters. Good thing you did though…” She leans down and pulls out the package that’s hiding under her desk. “Or I would’ve carried this monster for nothing.”

She dumps it in Booker’s lap before he can protest. His eyebrows rise as he struggles to balance it.

“What…” he asks, and Nile gestures for him to unwrap it.

“Is this a Thanksgiving thing?” he asks, picking at the tape until Nile reaches out and just rips the paper for him.

“It can be,” she says, and Booker’s about to ask another question when he realises what he’s holding. It’s a huge leather-bound book, pages so thick and full it had to be clipped shut. _Sébastien Le Livre_ is embossed in gold across the front, and Booker runs his fingers over it, face creasing.

“You didn’t do the usual retirement stuff,” Nile says quietly. “So we thought we’d improvise something.”

“Why is it so…” Booker asks, hand wrapping around the spine. He looks up at her, words lost.

“People had a lot to say,” she says. “Can you guess who helped me categorise everything?”

“Nicky,” Booker says, laughing as he runs his fingers down the cascading tabs.

“Yep,” Nile says. “By player, crew, front office and public, and then alphabetised by surname,” she says.

Booker opens the cover and starts flicking through the pages, each one filled to the brim. Nile had adored scrapbooking again; maybe she’d gone a little overboard. Booker’s face softens with every page, fingers running over the messages and photos and bits of memorabilia. When he blinks, tears drop onto the pages, and he curses before he realises they’re waterproof.

“You really thought of everything,” he says as Nile hands him her tissue box.

“It was a team effort,” she says, and he smiles at that.

“I don’t know how you managed to get a hold of everyone,” he says. “Some of these people I must’ve met right at the beginning.”

Nile makes a face.

“Well,” she says. “Joe and Andy were super helpful, obviously. But I also asked Copley. He knows everybody.”

Booker’s eyebrows raise, and then he snorts.

“Copley…” he says. “He tried to help me. He really did.” He laughs at Nile’s expression. “It didn’t turn out well, but his intentions were good.”

“Whatever,” Nile says. “It was the least he could do.”

Booker’s still smiling when he turns the next page – and freezes. He makes a noise like he’s been wounded, and Nile’s next to him in an instant.

“Booker?” she says, touching his shoulder before looking down at the page. She’d tried not to read the messages that had come in, and Nicky had done a fair amount of the collation too. She realises she’s looking down at Nicky’s own page, filled with his horrible handwriting. There’s a photo pasted in, glossy against the paper.

It’s a muggle polaroid, all the figures still and smiling. Nile recognises teenage Nicky, awkward and still filling out, complete with awful facial hair. There’s a young child clambering up his left leg and another one on his back, making devil horns above Nicky’s head. A woman stands next to them, dark hair shining, cradling a baby in her arms as she beams at the camera. A man has his arms around her, not looking at the camera but smiling at them all instead, wide and warm.

It’s Booker. Of course it is – but Nile has to stop and stare at this version of him, caught in time. She’s seen old photos of Booker before, but this one is different. He’s so young. He’s so _happy_. For a moment, he reminds her of Joe: the same unfiltered smile, the sheer unadulterated love in his face. There’s an unfamiliar scrawl in the polaroid’s frame.

 _Dearest Nicolò_ , it reads. _We’re going to miss you so much! Please visit often, even if I still can’t make pasta you approve of. Thank you for all your help with the boys. Much tougher than Quidditch, I’ll bet! Lots of love, Corinne._

“Oh,” Nile says, and her own eyes sting a little. Booker’s fingers hover just above the photo, like he’s too scared to touch it.

“Must have been a riot, billeting Nicky,” Nile says, and Booker lets out an exhale that might have been a laugh.

“He was a moody little shit,” Booker says. “But Corinne loved him.” His throat moves as he swallows, not looking up. “He fell for every prank Matthieu and Luc played on him. And he was there when – when Jean-Pierre was born.” He shifts his legs, nearly dislodging the book. Nile steadies it with one hand and says hesitantly,

“Do you mind…”

Booker shakes his head and angles the page towards her. Her eyes are drawn to Nicky’s note under the photo.

 _Booker_ , it says, _I’m sorry if this memory hurts you. But I wanted to remind you – you are still the man in that photo. You are still the man who loved infinitely, and who we all loved just as much. Corinne would always say you loved everyone else so much you forgot about yourself. I still miss her, Booker. So I can’t imagine how you must feel. But you are still the man she loved, only wiser. Anyone you’ve ever cared for will tell you that._

“Thank you, Nile,” Booker says, and he’s smiling at her when she looks up, unsteady but sincere. “Thank you for this. It must have been a lot of work.”

“It was fun,” Nile says, smiling back. “And honestly, the response was overwhelming. All we had to do was ask.” She squeezes his shoulder, trying to make sure her point gets through. “You’ve done so much, Booker. The proof is right here. That’s what this is.”

Booker makes a face, and she gives him a severe look until he laughs.

“Let me go through it,” he says, which is concession enough for now. She nods, standing up.

“Well,” she says, “I’m getting dessert. You in?”

“Alright,” Booker says, carefully shutting the book. He’s still looking at the cover when he says quietly, “thank you for inviting me tonight.”

“Of course, Booker,” Nile says. “Family is always welcome here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And as they say, it’s always calmest before the storm…  
> Up next: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> EDIT 23/12/20: There's now art/comic panels for [The Big Damn Kiss](https://antukini.tumblr.com/post/638248661556592641/joe-turns-to-nicky-eyes-wild-and-shining-usually) after the Championship win! Thanks to the absolutely phenomenal antukin ❤
> 
> There are actually a lot of deleted scenes from writing this, and I was curious as to whether people would be interested in some short(er, I swear!) sidefics in this verse? These may include:  
> 1\. Nicky’s rookie year with the Le Livre’s (which may tie in with a post-mainfic family reconciliation idea. Maybe).  
> 2\. Chris’ rookie year with Joe and Nicky, where it’s a disaster household of three people lacking chill in three different ways.
> 
> Let me know if either (or anything else in the verse) piques your interest in seeing more of in this AU! Thank you all for taking the time to let me know what you’re enjoying. Some of the details you all pick up on make me feel very Seen and makes it all very worthwhile. Cheers :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Nicky’s always been taught, when things feel too good to be true – it’s probably because they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [polar knight](https://alaskandawn.tumblr.com/) for the beta and for all the ongoing support ♥ 
> 
> See the end notes for some amazing art she’s done for the verse!

“Hey, dads, have you seen – oh, gross. Have you seen my kindle?”

Chris comes bustling through the living room, checklist in hand. Nicky is sitting in the cradle of Joe’s arms, his back against Joe’s chest as Joe reads to him. It’s Nicky’s offseason goal to start learning Arabic. Joe thinks he’s mad, but it melts him every time Nicky doggedly tries to copy his pronunciation, so. He’s enabling.

They’d been swept in Round Two of the playoffs that season. It’s neither the best nor worst outcome; it’s near impossible to win back-to-back Championships, anyway. Usually, Nicky would start the offseason with a good sulk, but he’s forgone it for Chris’ sake, as with many of his actions that season. Concerned with Chris taking the loss badly, Nicky has set a household example of not dwelling on it. He needn’t have worried so much – Chris is a far cry from the nervous wreck that had first moved in with them, unable to be in the same room without stammering. By the time the press had fixated on the dads narrative with Joe and Nicky, Chris had grown comfortable enough to lean into it ironically. Joe knows that Nicky secretly loves it, if only as proof of his and Chris’ growth together, and Joe’s just glad to see the kid joke around. Predictably, it had become less ironic and more of a habit, and now he and Nicky have the unfortunate reflex of responding to the title.

“Your what, sorry?” Nicky asks, getting up to help look.

“It’s the flat muggle thing that holds lots of books,” Chris says, and then cheers as Nicky finds it under a couch cushion.

“I didn’t realise you used this,” Nicky says, curious.

“Oh, it’s actually Caitlin’s,” Chris says. “Stop waggling your eyebrows Joe, it’s not like that.”

“Not like what?” Joe asks, innocent as ever. Chris sighs.

“Kat and I are just friends,” he says, and Joe smiles and leans back, arms behind his head.

“You know, Chris,” he says, “Nicky and I were once ‘just friends’ too –”

“Leave him be,” Nicky chides, and then turns to Chris. “Is that everything?”

“I think so,” Chris says, checking his list again.

“You’ll just have to visit if there’s anything left over,” Nicky says, and Chris grins at him.

“Missing me already?” he asks, and then his eyes widen as he takes in Nicky’s face. “Oh, Nicky, I’ll visit regardless! And I’m still going to be on the same team…unless they trade me…”

“Don’t worry, you can’t get away that easily,” Joe says, standing up. “Not with your performance this season.”

“Yes,” Nicky says, nodding. “Chris – we’re so proud of you.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Chris says, looking between them. “Please, no crying. It’ll make my face swell and I’ll get fat comments all summer.”

“Alright,” Joe says, laughing. “Get out of here then.”

Chris is spending offseason in Taiwan with family, and he promises to bring them both souvenirs when he returns. Most of his stuff has already been shipped off, so they just see him out the door with his backpack and one suitcase. He doesn’t trip over anything this time; just turns and hugs them both at once, crushingly tight.

“Thank you,” he says, as he’s said many times before, “for getting me through my first year.”

“Some might say we made it worse,” Joe says and Chris laughs, stepping back.

“Definitely,” he says and walks away from them, down the front path. He turns back at the gate and raises a hand. “Have a good summer, dads!”

They wave until he apparates, and then both stand at the door for too long, watching the empty street.

“They grow up so fast,” Joe says and Nicky laughs, a little choked. When Joe turns, Nicky’s looking at him with a strange expression on his face, beyond the expected bittersweetness.

“What is it?” Joe asks, and Nicky shakes his head. 

“Nothing,” he says, and distracts Joe by kissing him. “I’m just – happy.”

~*~

The next year, in Joe and Nicky’s fourth season together and Nile’s fifth with the Guard, they win their second Championship.

Joe actually doesn’t catch the snitch, but they’ve been outscoring the Sirens all series. They get it done in three games, the Chaser squad hitting personal bests and then breaking them; Nile, June and Olivia terrorising the Keeper until Hughes catches the snitch just to end the Siren’s misery.

They descend to the ground in a messy tangle, June and Olivia smacking kisses on Nile’s cheeks as the team envelope them. The Chasers from each twine find each other, instinctual, and Nile thinks her face might break from smiling so much. It’s a rare way to win, and she’s always struggled with how futile it can feel, to have a snitch catch wipe away all their hard work. But as her fellow Chasers dance around her, all inaudible but still knowing what each other are saying, she forcefully shoves that anxiety aside. They’d won this game for the team. They’d _won_.

Joe mimes bowing down to them all, and they laugh and pull him in. Nile has never envied him; at least she always shares the load. Joe squeezes next to Nile and yells,

“Fucking _right_ , Freeman! See if they don’t give you the A next season, or the goddamn captaincy!” The rest of his words are lost as he grabs her, and then her squad is lifting her onto their shoulders, everyone touching and unwilling to let go. From her vantage point, Nile sees Andy standing next to Nicky, watching them all. Nile catches her eye, and despite the uproar all around them, Nile feels the quiet clarity of Andy’s nod, and the smile that comes with it.

There’s little doubt now that they are truly in the golden age of the Guard. Reporters are always quick to note the all-star roster, or the living legend that’s spent a decade rebuilding the team. But it’s more than that. As the stadium starts singing for them, Nile looks around and sees a family: a raucous, ragtag bunch of nutters she’s dedicated everything to, a family she has laughed with and cried with and trusted her life with, who she has bled for and who have bled for her. When the team gesture as one for her to lift the trophy first, she kisses the metal and raises it high above her head. It’s perfect. Everything is perfect.

~*~

That summer, Joe finally takes Nicky home with him.

Nicky’s met Joe’s family plenty over four seasons together, but it’s always been brief and Quidditch-related. It thrills Joe, to bring Nicky home properly and have everyone he loves under the same familiar roof. Nicky, however, is oddly skittish about it, even though he smiles at Joe’s excitement and assures Joe he’s looking forward to it.

“Are you still nervous around them?” Joe asks as they’re packing.

“Am I ever _not_ supposed to be nervous around Ayesha?” Nicky asks, making his shirts fold neatly into his suitcase before refolding them a different way.

“She’s a lawyer, that’s just how she talks,” Joe says, trying to make his suitcase zip itself. Even magic is struggling against his overpacking. “She still loves you.”

Nicky gives him a sceptical look before coming over to repack Joe’s suitcase.

“Besides,” Joe says, “I have too many sisters. You don’t need all of them.”

Nicky laughs, but he still looks tense. Joe understands; immediate family aside, every second cousin, distant neighbour and long-lost friend is asking to drop by. Most of the time, Joe loves how his summers are like one giant dinner party, with an endless parade of loved ones to catch up with. But it takes a lot of energy and will be doubly hard on Nicky, not knowing anyone when everyone wants to get to know him. Joe will have to get his mother to put her foot down.

The al-Kaysanis’ constant presence in Joe’s life is highlighted by the Genoveses’ lack thereof in Nicky’s. Joe’s flummoxed by it; his family drives him up the wall, but he always misses them. Nicky just shrugs and says he prefers the distance, and then doesn’t say much else. Joe doesn’t push him, just holds him a little tighter and thinks _you have me._ He has little doubt the _me_ will become _us_ when Nicky comes home with him. He just hopes Nicky will feel that _before_ the al-Kaysanis scare him off. It’ll be a close call.

\--

“I’m taking Nicky to the muggle Medina,” Ayesha announces one week in. Joe watches Nicky’s head pop up from where he’s standing in the kitchen, helping Mariam with breakfast. After the first few days, Mariam had given up on shooing Nicky out of helping her; Nicky’s discomfort at being waited upon is palpable, and he jumps up every time he sees an opening. It does give Mariam many opportunities to lament at how spoilt Joe is, which is a _lie_ – Nicky is simply an overachiever. 

He’s kept up his Arabic lessons from last summer, but a season is not the easiest time to learn any language, let alone with how fast Joe’s sisters speak. They’ll use French or English for Nicky’s sake, but when a sister smackdown is about to happen, it’s in Arabic. This leads to Nicky going a little bobble-headed, looking up every time he hears his name.

Zahra pouts.

“ _I_ was going to take him to the Medina,” she says just as Amira says, “I already took him.”

Both Ayesha and Zahra gasp as if Amira’s casually admitted to grand larceny. Amira doesn’t even look up from her book. Joe grins, leaning back on his chair between them all. He’s always known it’s the quiet ones to watch out for.

“He can go again,” Mariam says, waving her wand so breakfast lands neatly across the table and starts serving itself. “It’s a big place, girls.”

“That’s not the _point_ –” Zahra says, and Joe puts an arm around Nicky as he takes a seat, still trying to follow the conversation.

“Ayesha’s trying to get you alone,” he says into Nicky’s ear as his sisters start arguing. “Interrogation tactics. You up for it?”

“Don’t think I have a choice,” Nicky replies, sipping his coffee. “Where will you find my body?”

“I’ll save you before that,” Joe says, laughing, and kisses Nicky’s cheek for good measure.

“Hey, none of that,” Ayesha says, breaking away from Zahra to glare at Joe. “Especially tomorrow. Or do you want me to let slip to Grandmama that you two are sharing a room before marriage?”

“Holdup, no mentioning marriage _at all_ tomorrow,” Joe says to the table at large, and Zahra giggles threateningly. Nicky is mouthing their words next to Joe, trying to parse them, and Joe moves hastily on, asking Ayesha to pick up sketchbooks when she takes Nicky shopping. She eyes him knowingly but plays along. Maybe Joe will get Nicky back in one piece after all.

\--

Nicky and Ayesha both come home looking satisfied, which is only bad because Nicky refuses to dish on their trip.

“It wouldn’t do to betray her trust so quickly,” Nicky says, a small smile on his lips as Joe harrumphs and goes to complain to Zahra, who’s busy decorating. Joe’s official Welcome Home dinner is always an all-day party, with his mother up by dawn and extended family appearing by lunch to help set up. This year, people are arriving by eleven, arms laden, eyes beady. Joe has prepared for this by sending Nicky off with Ibrahim to get last minute supplies. He’s getting told off for this by three different aunties when they finally return. Nicky looks surprisingly calm to be facing down a houseful of al-Kaysanis, which means Ibrahim’s done a good job. There’s a flurry of introductions, where everyone makes a lot of noise at Nicky’s halting Arabic. Joe’s cousins mime swooning behind Nicky’s back. Joe rolls his eyes, but he knows he’s beaming.

Nicky’s compulsion to help goes into overdrive, exacerbated by people constantly asking him to lift things or reach tall places. Considering they all have wands, it’s a little ridiculous. However, Nicky obediently follows every request and Joe gives up trying to save him by late afternoon. Instead, he snacks to his heart’s content and takes over door duty as friends and neighbours start arriving, stretching the house to max capacity. It’s wonderful.

Nicky is setting up dinner tables when Joe finally escapes the house. He’d met some new babies that had been born over last season, been teased mercilessly for not catching the snitch in the final and caught Zahra in her room with a neighbour’s son. To be fair, they did seem to just be talking, but she’d also threatened to hex him if he told Ayesha, which is pretty telling. Joe ducks out the backdoor and across the patio, only stepping on the coloured pavestones as he’d done since childhood. There are so many guests that they’re putting extra seating on the grass, and Joe walks over to where Nicky’s standing by the line of trees, rearranging a table so it’s in the shade. Joe can feel everybody’s eyes following him. Subtlety is not, perhaps, an al-Kaysani and Co.’s strong suit.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, handing Nicky an ice-cold glass of mint tea. Nicky takes it gratefully, their fingers meeting for a second. Joe thinks wistfully about sneaking off, but they’d never get away with it.

“Good,” Nicky says, smiling like he knows what Joe is thinking. “I can’t remember anyone’s names but I feel useful.”

“You don’t have to work for them to like you,” Joe says, and Nicky gives him a sceptical look. “They just want to meet you. That’s all.”

“Mm,” Nicky says without conviction, and then looks around before stepping closer. “And you? Are you having a good time with everyone?”

“Yeah,” Joe says, smiling at him. “I mean, I did have to escape one uncle but they’re all great, really. They’re family.”

“I don’t…” Nicky says, and looks so lost for a second Joe wants to smooth the expression from his face. “I keep expecting something to go wrong, I think,” he says quietly. “I’m almost more worried that it hasn’t yet.” He glances at Joe as if Joe will laugh at him. “How do you think I’m doing?”

“Nicky,” Joe says, and takes Nicky’s face in his hands. Nicky makes a startled noise, looking guilty, but leans into Joe’s touch, free hand circling Joe’s wrist. Joe can almost hear his aunties losing it from the kitchen window. “You’re doing fantastically. Everybody thinks you’re lovely and even if they don’t, fuck it! _I_ think you’re perfect. And that’s all that matters.”

Nicky laughs, pushing Joe’s hands away in mock-derision.

“Very egotistical,” he says, but he’s a little pink. “I think I care about your mother’s opinion more than yours, if I’m honest.”

“That’s fair,” Joe says. “Oh shit, look busy. Sami’s coming over.”

\--

Over dinner, people realise that Nicky’s guaranteed icebreaker is, unsurprisingly, Quidditch. Every EQL fan in Joe’s life descends on him with glee, and even non-Quidditch folks stop by to see Nicky at full force. Joe tends to cap Quidditch talk when he’s home but to Nicky, Quidditch _is_ home, and he doesn’t exactly have an off switch for it. Well – none that Joe can use in public, anyway. One cousin discovers that Nicky seems to know the stats on any player she cares to name, and this starts a trivia battle in one corner of the garden, with people quizzing Nicky with increasingly obscure questions and gasping when he gets it right. Nicky looks surprised but pleased, feet on firm ground again.

“Hey, is it true Le Livre is returning as a sports analyst?” Nadine asks. She’s one of Joe’s oldest childhood friends; Nicky is currently cradling her six-month-old daughter in his arms. Joe can feel the crowd of onlookers melting at the sight. Or maybe he was just melting enough for all of them combined. It’s hard to tell.

“Mm,” Nicky says, his eyes on the baby. The breadth of his shoulders makes her seem extra small, but he holds her with steady hands, like he knows what he’s doing. Joe wonders where he’d gotten the practice. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Surely they won’t just stick him behind a desk,” Nadine says. “He’ll be on camera, no?”

Nicky glances at Joe.

“He might prefer not to, at the beginning,” he says. Zahra pauses as she walks by, and then sidles over to stand next to Nicky.

“Is this about Booker?” she asks casually, a wicked little smile at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, please tell me he’ll be on broadcast. I’ve always thought he was _very_ handsome.”

Joe’s eyes nearly bug out of his head as the gathered crowd agrees far too enthusiastically.

“No,” he says, pointing at Zahra, and then at Amira when she starts to laugh. “No, none of you even _joke_ about that –”

“We’re allowed to have opinions, Yusuf,” Ayesha says, just able to maintain a straight face. “We have eyes.”

“Not around my teammates you don’t,” Joe mutters. Nicky laughs, and then immediately stops when the baby fusses, rocking her gently until she stops. Joe’s gotten multiple comments throughout the evening of how _different_ Nicky is to what people had assumed; how sweet, how smart, how unexpected. Joe just smiles and nods. Nicky is everything: as ferocious as he is gentle, as shy as he is competent. As the conversation continues, Nicky looks up and smiles at Joe; a quiet, precious moment amongst the hubbub.

The only time on-pitch Nicky makes an appearance is when they discuss rivalries over dessert. Nadine’s gone to put her daughter to bed and Joe had quickly claimed her spot, arm slung over the back of Nicky’s chair.

“Okay, controversial opinion given the company,” Fethi says, “but I have to say – Keane’s very good. His accuracy’s nearly as good as yours, Nicky. And his swing strength is insane.”

Nicky glowers on reflex before visibly reining it back.

“He’s effective,” he concedes. “He’s just…” Nicky pauses, and Joe can almost hear his brain grinding through all the PR-approved responses he’s trained to give.

“Very good at targeting Joe in order to distract you?” Zahra suggests, eyebrows raised. Nicky’s comfortable enough with her to glare back.

“Is it a distraction if I give him what he deserves?” he asks, and everyone _ooh_ s like schoolchildren. Joe rests a hand Nicky’s knee under the table and feels him slowly relax back down. Zahra gives them both a knowing look.

As the sky darkens into evening, their garden lights come to life, warming them all in gold as they float out from the trees, occasionally bumping against the whitewashed walls of their home. Joe and Nicky have escaped the rowdier guests to sit with Sonali and Adam, who have lived two doors down for a decade now. Nicky looks particularly beautiful in the soft light, the shadows from his features like smudges from a loving hand. He has his head propped up on one hand, eyelids low.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Sonali says when the conversation lulls. “Genovese – that wouldn’t be the same Genovese as Genovese Consulting, would it?”

To the untrained eye, Nicky’s expression barely changes. To Joe, Nicky’s expression shutters like a door slamming, and he feels Nicky go rigid beside him.

“It is,” he says, voice mild but short. Sonali’s eyes widen.

“Oh my gosh,” she says, turning to Adam. “Honey, weren’t you saying – I think a friend’s son just got an offer at one of the German offices. Oh, it was so competitive…”

“Oh, yeah,” Adam says, looking thoughtful. “Work’s been buzzing about that acquisition Gianvittorio just pushed through. How’re you related?”

All the sleepiness has drained from Nicky. He sits up, and Joe recognises his PR face immediately.

“He’s my brother,” he says. Adam’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh shit,” he says, looking stumped. “I didn’t know he had siblings.” He gives Nicky a teasing smile. “You didn’t want to take over the business with him? Might’ve been a bit easier than what you do now.”

Nicky laughs in a way Joe never wants to hear again.

“Gianvi was always better at...all that,” he says, waving a hand. “And he was raised to take over from my father. No need for me to.”

“Oh, but your parents must be so proud,” Sonali says, and Nicky blinks at her. “You’ve done so well for yourself!”

“Oh,” Nicky says, and his mouth twists upwards. “I don’t think they quite understand hitting things for a living, but thank you.”

His tone, underlined now with bitterness, sets Joe on edge, and he redirects them, segueing smoothly to ask Sonali about her parents instead. Nicky squeezes Joe’s hand under the table, quiet and grateful, and Joe squeezes back, chest tight.

By the time the last guests are leaving, they’ve migrated onto the grass. Nicky sits cross legged in the middle of a thick picnic blanket, a sister on each side. Zahra has her head against Nicky’s thigh; Amira is leaning her back against Nicky’s, eyes closed. Nicky had tried to get up at one point to start cleaning, but Ayesha had just pointed a finger at him and said _no,_ and he hadn’t tried again. She’s speaking quietly to Nicky when Joe joins them, translating what their grandmother had said when she’d forgotten Nicky couldn’t speak fluent Arabic. Joe stretches out and puts his head in the crook of Nicky’s legs. Nicky smiles down at him before turning back to Ayesha, his hands finding Joe’s hair. Joe looks up at him and then beyond, into the night sky. All the stars he’s familiar with blink at him like they’re saying hello.

They’d grown up like this, lying in the backyard and staring up at the sky. He remembers how annoying Zahra had been about camping outside, and then how much he’d missed it when he’d left home. He remembers the rare secrets Amira would tell him under the cover of darkness, how Ayesha had sat out in the rain with him when he’d first had his heart broken and needed to be dramatic. He can barely believe that Nicky’s here with them now, so foreign and yet so much a part of him that he must be a part of his sisters, too. Zahra goes to tickle him from where she’s lying, and Joe retaliates until Nicky and Ayesha both admonish them at the same time, and Joe hears Amira laugh from behind them. Joe can’t stop smiling.

When they finally get to bed, Joe comes out of the shower to find Nicky standing by the window with the lights off, a silhouette against the frame.

“Hey,” Joe says softly, and puts his arms around Nicky, pressing his face against the crook of his neck. They breathe together, and Nicky’s fingers find his, as they always do. “Did you have a good time?”

“Mm,” Nicky says, leaning back against Joe. “I really did. Everyone was lovely. I was worried…” he stops, fingers squeezing. “I couldn’t believe it. But it was lovely.”

“What couldn’t you believe?” Joe asks. Nicky is silent for a long time, and then,

“Family. So many of them, just…together. Happy.” There’s an awe in his voice that guts Joe with its sincerity. “I always thought – I knew it was _possible_ , I just didn’t…” Nicky stops and turns then, because he can no doubt feel the way Joe’s arms are tightening around him. “No, Yusuf, it’s okay,” he says, as if _Joe_ is the one who needs comfort right now. “I’m just saying, they were lovely. You have an amazing family.”

“They’re your family too,” Joe says, and then his heart jolts as he realises the gravity of his words. Of course, he means them – he’s just not sure if Nicky is ready to hear it yet. Nicky’s eyes are wide in the moonlight and Joe keeps his gaze, barely breathing. The house is so quiet Joe imagines he can hear both their hearts hammering. Finally, Nicky takes Joe’s face in his hands, and kisses him so tenderly that Joe aches with it, hands gripping Nicky’s back.

“Thank you,” Nicky says, so quiet it’s barely a breath.

“Everything I have is yours,” Joe says, because it’s the truth, and they stand like that, intertwined, for a very long time.

\--

Much to Joe’s chagrin, Nicky has outdone himself. Everyone’s clamouring to see more of him, regardless of whether Joe is present or not. He keeps coming home to find Nicky gone, and then has to play round-robin with his sisters to figure out where he is. At first, he’s concerned Nicky is simply too polite to say no and is secretly hating the entire experience. But Nicky is an open book to Joe by now, and he keeps coming home quietly giddy, no matter how tired he is. It no doubt helps that everyone’s taking the opportunity to embarrass Joe.

“You were such a chubby baby!” Nicky says when he returns from their aunties’ house, and the dinner table hoots with laughter as Joe groans and tries to stop Mariam from summoning her own photo albums.

“Yes, we were surprised a broom would fly with him on it,” Ayesha says, and she and Nicky share a conspiratorial smile, just between the two of them.

When they’re alone on the swing seat outside, Nicky says,

“I think people like me.”

Joe laughs and says,

“You’re just realising that now?”

Nicky shakes his head, looking like he does when he wants Joe to read his mind.

“No, I mean,” he says, and takes a breath. “They like _me_. Not because…not because of Quidditch, or business, or even because I’m with you. Just…me.” He shrugs, hesitant. “Do you know what I mean?”

Joe does. It can be difficult to know who they are outside of Quidditch, considering how young they’d started and their current public profiles. Joe’s not sure how Nicky has stayed sane, considering the glaring lack of familial support and only a handful of close friends. Joe has his expansive network to come home to; Nicky has no such luck. He adores Italy as much as the country adores him, but _Nicolò Genovese_ is a goddamn institution there. Elsewhere, Nicky hides by being aggressively boring with press, but he’s been the darling of Italian Quidditch and culture from too young. Every generation in Italy feels some sort of connection with him, but that’s with _Nicolò_ and not just Nicky. Joe’s not sure if Nicky has really felt that difference until recently.

He takes Nicky’s hands and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Of course,” he says, and Nicky’s face relaxes. “And of course they like you just because. I might as well not even be here.”

Nicky laughs.

“Well, I must be a nice change for them, after you,” he says, and Joe has to kiss him then just to feel his smile. A window opens above them, but Joe is too enamoured to stop – until Zahra drops a water bomb directly over them, which somehow misses Nicky and completely soaks Joe.

As happy as Joe is for Nicky, there are days where he doesn’t get to see Nicky until bedtime. And once there, Nicky refuses to do more than kiss. Joe stares at him.

“Babe,” he says, “the door is _locked._ And I’ve cast so many silencing charms –”

“Mmhm, because that doesn’t make us more suspicious _at all_ ,” Nicky says, rolling over. “Your sisters are next door. Goodnight, Yusuf.”

Joe mouths _what?!_ at the ceiling and hears Nicky laugh quietly into his pillow. Bastard.

\--

Thankfully, Joe steals Nicky back with travel. Technically, they travel together constantly, but it doesn’t count if all they see are hotels and Quidditch pitches. Instead, they go exploring, luxuriating in the lack of schedule. Nicky still has an itinerary, of course, but lets Joe deviate from it as much as he wants. Joe thinks he’d trade all the wonders in the world for the unbridled awe Nicky has for every new thing, and the way his face lights up as he turns to share his excitement. In particular, Nicky loves the wizarding ruins hidden amongst the muggle ones, and Joe’s not surprised. Magic can feel markedly different in every part of the world, and especially around ancient sites, the thrum of it is unique and heady.

Most of all, they spend time along the coast. It’s here that Joe seriously considers whether he’s died early and gone to heaven. Every beach is postcard perfect, and Nicky makes up for lost time in every resort they stay at, in rooms so secluded they feel like the only people on Earth. In El Haouaria, Joe drifts awake to the sound of waves instead of an alarm, and smiles as he smells coffee and fresh bread. When he finally opens his eyes, he can see Nicky out on the balcony, head tipped back against the sun. Joe’s sisters have teased Nicky endlessly about not tanning, but Joe thinks he looks radiant; warm and beautiful and so relaxed. He hasn’t bothered to put a shirt on, and Joe’s eyes trace the lines of his back, more familiar to him now than his own. He can see the marks he’s left on Nicky’s skin, heat sparking through him as he remembers each kiss and bite and bruise. They’re a lot nicer than the marks Nicky usually carries from the game, and Joe has to get out of bed just to touch him again.

Nicky turns when Joe walks out behind him, hair lifting in the sea breeze. He’s let it grow out a little from the short cut he keeps all season, and Joe runs his hands through it, arms on Nicky’s shoulders. They kiss as their _good morning_ , sweet and filthy all at once.

“I thought you’d be tired after yesterday,” Nicky teases, hands running down Joe’s back.

“Of you?” Joe asks, smiling. “Never.”

\--

A few days before they’re due to leave, Joe finds his father staring out the kitchen window, dishes forgotten. It’s still strange to Joe that he’s taller than Ibrahim now. In his mind, his father is still the towering figure he’d tried to copy as a boy, always calm, always knowing what to say. Now, Joe can see the grey hairs amongst the black, the lines that weren’t there last summer. Joe waves his wand to get the dishes cleaning and Ibrahim turns, looking guilty before realising it’s Joe.

“Thank you,” he says, and then gestures out the window. “Come look.”

Joe joins him and sees a rare sight: Amira talking animatedly, hands waving, books down. Nicky is listening intently from the patio table. As they watch, Nicky makes a comment that has Amira pointing at him excitedly before diving for her notebook.

“Think she’ll finally finish her thesis this year?” Joe asks, and Ibrahim laughs.

“If Nicky helps her do that, he’ll replace us all as favourite,” he says, and puts an arm around Joe’s shoulders, steady and warm. They’re quiet for a little while, watching as Zahra comes back in from the garden. Instead of interrupting Amira like she usually would, she takes a seat next to Nicky and listens with him, shoulder leaning against his.

“Thank you for bringing him home to us,” Ibrahim says, and he’s never had to say much for Joe to understand exactly what he’s saying. “It’s been a beautiful summer.”

“The best,” Joe says, and he’s so happy he can barely contain it. “It’s been the best.”

~*~

Just prior to pre-season, Andy offers Nile the captaincy. ‘Offer’ is the official term; Andy doesn’t exactly make suggestions. Nile’s first thought is _no, I’m too young, I’m not good enough –_ but Andy gives her a piercing look and Nile breathes in, slow and steadying. Five seasons as the Guard’s top scorer, two Championships in three years, a locker room of players who already follow her lead: she can do it.

“I’d be honoured,” she says, and Andy sits back, satisfied. Joe, who’s been alternate captain for several seasons now, whoops from behind Andy, and Nicky gives her a rare smile.

“Good,” he says. “I wasn’t going to accept the other A without you.”

“Oh sure,” she says sarcastically, but she’s grinning. She knows she can do this; she’s also glad they’ll both be at her back, brothers in arms in every sense. She slings her arms around them both as they leave the office, and they laugh as she drags them into a near-run, too excited to walk.

“I want another Championship, she says, and Joe whistles. “I want a Goddamn dynasty.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Joe says, and even though he’s smiling, his eyes are as serious as Nicky’s. “Whatever you say.”

~*~

Nile’s first game as Captain is against the fucking Alchemists.

After what had happened with Booker, the franchise rivalry between the Guard and the Alchemists had tipped into something truly ugly. They’d also swept the Alchemists out of the playoffs last season, but it had cost them. Nile knows both Andy and Copley have been asked to clear the air between the teams, or risk greater punishment for the amount of fouls and bloodshed that happened during games. Even with Quidditch, there is a line between _entertaining_ and _not fit for broadcast_. Andy had glared at the team and said,

“We’re going to destroy those motherfuckers by playing an unbeatable game, and if that means avoiding penalties, then fine. But if it doesn’t? Also fine.”

Nile knows that as Captain, she should lead by example; calm the visceral hatred that permeates the locker room whenever they verse the Alchemists. The older players all exude it, and the younger players follow suit, even those who had never even known Booker. It’s grown into part of their lore, and Nile feels it under her own skin every time she sees their stupid blue logo. Intellectually, she knows much of the Alchemists’ wrongdoings are from ownership and management, but that sort of rationality tends to fall away when they kick off the ground. There’s not exactly much love between the players either. 

“Nicky,” she says outside their locker room. “I understand how it is, but I need you to be extra careful, okay?”

His jaw clenches and she tips her chin up, keeping his gaze. Before, she would’ve been hesitant to call him out. Now, she has to.

“I’m within the rules –” he starts, but she shakes her head.

“That’s borderline and you know it,” she says. “And I know you’re protecting us, but the League’s cracking down on Beaters and you’ve also got the A now. The team follows you, and I don’t want Chris or any of the others risking it, okay?”

It’s a cheap shot, bringing Chris into it, but generally effective. Nicky glares at her, conflict clear on his face.

“If Keane –” he says, and looks like he wants to spit the taste of that name out of his mouth, “if Keane goes after Joe like he always does, I make no promises.”

Nile expected as much. Beaters always threaten Seekers, but it’s become personal, the way Keane guns for Joe and the way Nicky hunts him down for it. Nile knows Andy allows that play because it’s good for wins, and fans love the rivalry between the League’s top Beaters. But it’s also costly: the risk of it, the pressure, the absolute nightmare it makes out of Nicky. So far, he plays well from it, but it always feels a hair’s breadth away from madness. Nile is not risking that on her watch.

“Nicky,” she says, eyes locked with his. “I’m asking you to set a professional example, no matter what. _No matter what_. Can you do that for me?”

Nicky takes a deep breath in; a slow exhale out.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, face set. She takes it.

\--

“ _And your new Captain, ladies and gentlemen…_ ”

Nile mounts her broom, heart in her throat –

“ _Nile Freeman!_ ”

She shoots out of the tunnel and the stadium rises to meet her, roaring. She laps the stands, saluting, and receives adulation and hatred in equal parts, amplified by thousands of spectators. The Guard circle around her, tight knit, before following her down to the ground. It’s game time.

Her and Keane meet to shake hands. She ignores how they must look on the stadium projection: him towering above her, so much older and broader and better prepared. His face is impassive, but his grip is not. When Nile turns back to her team, she sees her own resolve reflecting back at her. They know her stance. Keep it clean, keep it short. Most of all: win.

It’s brutal from the moment they kick off. Both teams are playing like it’s Game Seven rather than a regular season opener; the Alchemists seeking revenge and the Guard rising to meet their fury. The pressure to start her Captaincy well grips her head, vice-like, and she extends that out, willing the Guard to maintain control. They’ve got first possession of the quaffle; she drops it to Olivia as the Alchemists’ Beaters converge and she’s forced to swerve. A second later Nicky’s there, teeth bared, and Keane veers to avoid his bludger before they both dive after it, Nile resuming formation above them. Nicky seems to be honouring his promise to her by focusing on the Chasers and having Chris spot Joe instead. Nile catches the quaffle from June and accelerates; the Keeper swoops up and for a second she sees Booker, prostrate on his kitchen floor, and shoots the quaffle so hard it snaps the Keeper’s wrist back as it soars through the hoop.

They’re horribly balanced; the Guard take the lead 50-40 but then have to scramble as the Alchemists pull ahead with 70-60, the scales tipping every ten minutes. Bludger hits echo through the stadium like gun shots, underscoring the crowd’s cries at every near-miss and goal and foul and penalty. Inevitably, somebody gets hit – it just happens to be Nile as Keane’s partner tries to cut her off. She shouts as her left forearm snaps, but the quaffle is in her right so she rolls with the hit and scores through the lower goal hoop, left arm dangling. It’s 110-100 to the Guard.

They call a time-out but she’s lucky – it’s a clean break and Celeste’s already healing it when the team gathers around her.

“It’s _fine_ ,” she says, teeth gritted as the bone snaps back into place. “We’re doing fine, let’s keep it together.” She looks at Joe, who’s still got his legs over his broom. “Just – try and end it soon, alright?”

“On it,” he says, and they kick back in.

Fifteen minutes later, Joe dives.

\--

Nicky is circling the Chaser’s formation when he sees Joe swerve from across the pitch, dropping at an insane angle after a flash of gold. The air is clear around him, the Alchemists’ Seeker nowhere near, and the entire stadium gasps, breath caught. Nicky smiles as Joe reaches out for a sure catch; a beautiful sight even after so long. He feels the beginnings of relief –

Nicky doesn’t see it, but he hears it: the sound he’s heard since he could fly, the _crack crack_ of a Beater’s bat hitting dead centre. There are two shots in rapid succession, and his broom is accelerating before he registers conscious thought, chasing after the bludgers as they ricochet past him, too fast and too far –

There’s only one place they’re going. Nicky hears himself cry out –

The first bludger hits Joe square in the throat. He jerks backwards – just in time for the second bludger to cave directly into the side of his head.

\--

Nile sees Joe reach for the snitch, and her heart swells –

A split second later, it all goes to shit. Everything happens at once and yet she sees it all: the worst one-two she’s ever witnessed, Joe falling, the stadium snapping out of its horror and _screaming_ as he does so; mediwizards scrambling on the ground as Andy sprints towards them, shouting, and then Nile’s blown back as Nicky shoots past her – not to land, but back to where the hits had come from.

Keane.

“Nicky, _no –_ ” she yells, looking around for – _for –_ and then realises the whole team is looking at _her_ , because she’s the Goddamn Captain and _fuck –_

“Land and cover,” she shouts, pointing where Joe’s grounded, and then gestures at Chris. “With me!”

They split, and Chris tails her as she flies after Nicky, but they’re only in time to see Nicky dive for Keane, who was already close to landing. She sees Keane turn and realise Nicky’s bearing down on him at full speed, sees his eyes widen –

Nicky tackles him. He flies directly into Keane and just doesn’t stop, the force of it launching both men off their brooms and onto the ground below. They hit the grass and roll away from each other, and when Nicky comes up off the ground, he’s done what every Quidditch player has been drilled not to do: he’s drawn his wand.

By logic, they should simply not be allowed wands on pitch. But many wizards still feel like they’re missing a limb without it, and thus it remains, holstered to the inside of their shin gear. Nile has never seen anyone draw their wand in the modern game, has barely witnessed a duel outside of class – only knows that the penalties for it are some of the League’s worst. It stops her from drawing her own even as Nicky raises his. 

Nicky’s curse is drowned out by the stadium’s reaction, but the flash of red is blinding as Nile lands, yelling at him to stop. Keane blocks with his own wand, self-preservation perhaps, but then he’s firing back and Chris has to yank her out of the way. Game officials are sprinting towards them, but before they can get close enough, something drops out of the air and divebombs them, forcing them to scatter. Nile gapes as Nicky’s broom, rider-less, does a sharp 360 and aims for the officials again. One of them points their wand at it –

“No!” Chris shouts, kicking off the ground, and Nile can only watch as he shoots past the officials and throws one leg over Nicky’s broom, double mounting until he can forcibly land again. Nicky’s broom goes still under him, as if it had not just done the insane. Chris twists around, eyes widening and shouts,

“Nile, behind you!”

She dives out of the way as Keane and Nicky barrel past her, locked in streaks of silver and blue. There’s an ugly gash across Nicky’s cheek, bleeding furiously, and a growth on Keane’s face that’s making his jaw twist. Behind her, the game officials finally hit them with disarming spells, ripping both players’ wands out of their hands. Keane barely has time to register this before Nicky punches him across the face with his newly empty fist. It’s actually a good move – too many wizards still don’t expect it, and Nicky gets another hit in before Keane grabs him, both of them grappling. Keane’s bigger, but Nicky is tactical and seemingly devoid of pain, even as Keane claws at the wound on his face.

Something – _something_ is happening with Nicky that Nile feels before she sees, a crackling in the air as Keane gains enough room to throw a punch. He jerks back with a yell, stumbling as Nicky stands firm. Furious, Keane lashes out again – and screams as his arm twists back on itself without ever making contact, hand spasming into a claw. He drops to his knees, clutching his wrist, and Nicky advances on him, silent and steady. He’s covered in blood now, but underneath it, his face is completely, unnervingly blank. Nicky raises his hands.

If there’s one thing wizarding Britain forgets, it’s wandless magic. Magic is certainly easiest through a wand: directed, regulated, and if you believe the Brits, more _civilised_. Having so much centred in Britain means forgetting that even close neighbours have different specialties. Without formal training now, they’re much more difficult, but possible. The sheer power of what Nicky is doing, wandless and nonverbal, is utterly terrifying. There is no precedent, no guidelines, and when Nile tries to run forward she hits something hard enough to be shocked backwards, a hundred pins and needles piercing her skin.

“Nicky,” she says, and the air shudders in front of her, static. “ _Nicky_ , listen to me. We need to get to Joe. _We need to get to Joe_.”

Nicky turns his head then, and she sees his eyes, the pupils blown out. His mouth forms her name –

They stun him. Nile’s never seen it happen in real life, but she sees the spell hit him; see his eyes roll back as he drops like a stone. She runs forward to catch him, barrier gone, and almost buckles under his weight before Chris gets in beside her. They lower him onto the grass and Chris turns Nicky’s head so Nile can press the hem of her uniform against his face, blood running hot under her hands. 

“Did you know –” she starts, and Chris shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it.

“No,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ve never seen – I didn’t know…”

Someone lands behind them, but it’s not a mediwizard; it’s Olivia, stumbling as she dismounts, tear tracks clear on her face.

“Nile,” she says. “Nile, you need to go. You need to go _now_.”

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you for all the interest in the sidefics I mentioned last time – they are really nice distractions against the absolute horror of the next mainfic update. So I guess this ‘just a two-parter’ fic may now be…a collection. Well shit. 
> 
> Secondly, check out these [insanely pretty moodboards](https://alaskandawn.tumblr.com/tagged/quidditch-au) polar made for the verse! Eeeee. 
> 
> As always, the ongoing support for this verse is just the best. Thank you everyone ♥ 
> 
> All feedback welcome :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences, consequences, consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for descriptions of traumatic brain injuries and medical procedures.
> 
> Whew, this one’s a big one. Thank you for everyone’s patience. I’d recommend a strong cup of tea and a blanket. Or a stiff drink. See you on the other side.

“Andy," Nile says. “Andy, _what the fuck is going on_?”

They are not in the stadium’s medical bay, or even their usual hospital affiliate. Instead, they are at a private institute Nile had almost gotten lost in, sprinting through the hallways in full gear before skidding into the right observation room. Andy has her wand drawn as Nile bursts in, and she doesn’t lower it as Nile stares at her, panting. The look on Andy’s face makes Nile’s words burn in her throat, and when Andy doesn’t speak Nile thinks she might throw up. No. _No_.

The observation window is too wide and bright to hide from. Nile’s eyes move past Andy to stare through the glass, and she’s terrified to look but even more afraid of not knowing. The room beyond seems to be a muggle operating theatre, which runs at odds with the familiar figure of Celeste, wand out over Joe’s prone form. Nile is painfully glad Celeste is blocking Joe’s head from view. She will already have nightmares from the little she’s seen.

Before she can ask again, the door to the operating theatre opens and another Celeste walks in, also in full scrubs. Nile squeezes her eyes shut before looking again. There are still two of them. In front of her, Andy shakes her head.

“That’s Céline,” she says, voice short. “Celeste’s twin. Muggle liaison doctor. Neurosurgeon.”

“…Neurosurgeon,” Nile repeats, watching Celeste and Céline move around the table, an oddly in-sync sight. “I didn’t know we used neurosurgeons.”

“We don’t,” Andy says and then sighs, lowering her wand. “Where’s Nicky?” she asks. “Why isn’t he with you?”

Nile inhales, breath still unsteady, and tries to clear her head. Her heart is hammering in her ears.

“Nicky attacked Keane,” she says, and Andy curses. “He drew his wand. And then punched him. And then…” she pauses, mouth struggling with the words. “He went wandless. I don’t know if he meant to, but Keane couldn’t even touch him. I couldn’t even…before…” she stops, grimacing. Her skin is still prickling. Andy drops into one of the chairs and drags her hair back from her face.

“Did they stun him?” she asks, and Nile nods. Andy scoffs. “Okay. That won’t last long. Considering it’s Joe, they should still let him –”

They hear footsteps, running, and then the door swings open and Nile stifles a gasp as Nicky strides in. Like her, he’s still in full gear; he’s also covered in blood and bruises, a gruesome sight in the sterile room. Two game officials flank him, wands out. Neither look very confident about it.

“Officers, give us a moment,” Andy says, standing.

“Coach, I’m not sure if you’re aware –” one of them starts.

“I’m aware,” Andy says, and raises her wand. “I’ll stun him if I have to. Just give us a minute.”

Both officials make a hasty exit, and Andy sheaths her wand.

“You should keep that out,” Nicky says, and Nile starts at his voice, harsh and hoarse and not like Nicky at all. “And then – tell me.”

Andy steps up to him, blocking his view of the observation window.

“Are you ready to hear it?” she asks, voice quiet but equally harsh. “Because we’re in the middle of an operation. So – are you ready?”

Anger twists Nicky’s face, ugly and hard, but Andy stands her ground, unwavering. After a moment, Nicky closes his eyes and inhales, excruciatingly slow.

“Alright,” he says, cutting through the rising tension. “Tell me.”

“Joe was hit in the throat and the head,” Andy says, pointing at the exact points of contact. “The throat was lucky, we can reform it. With the head…” Andy pauses for the first time, and fear stabs through Nile like an actual dagger. She sees Nicky feel it too as he takes a jerky step forward.

“ _Andromache_ ,” he says, and Andy holds up a hand.

“He’s alive,” she says. “His skull could be reformed. But – the brain.”

Dread is slowly dripping down Nile’s spine, so cold it is paralysing. She watches Nicky focus in on Andy, all of them barely breathing, unable to look away.

“You know the work I’ve been doing off-pitch?” Andy says, and Nicky nods, the smallest of movements. Nile is in the dark on this one, and she feels infantile in the face of that unknown history. Nicky is only a few years older than her, but he’s been part of Quidditch for far longer, and Andy is synonymous with the game itself. “You know the risks of magic on the brain, even if no one will admit it. So Celeste and I...” Andy takes a breath. “We believe it’s best to heal everything external with magic. But internally, neurologically – we go muggle.”

Nicky makes a terrible, wordless noise of horror and tries to push Andy. Andy cuts him off, arm out. Nicky jerks back, eyes wide, and they both stare at each other.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Nicky says, and his voice is brittle. Nile knows his ingrained stance on muggle medicine, even if she’s managed to moderate him over the years. This is, inarguably, the absolute worst time to bring up that debate.

“It means that no magic touches the brain,” Andy says. “Everything else will be easier with magic, including recovery. But the brain itself – we can’t risk it, Nicky.”

There is something terrible in her voice, something so painful Nile can’t fathom it. If it wasn’t Andy, Nile would almost say her expression is pleading.

“You said it wasn’t approved,” Nicky says, and his voice is clear but the edges of it are trembling. “You said the research wasn’t ready.” He is staring at Andy like he’s praying to be wrong. Nile understands this moment to her core; they regularly do whatever Andy orders without hesitation, almost without question. Right now, Nicky is on the precipice of that _almost_.

Andy opens her mouth, and Nile has the overwhelming urge to claw Andy’s voice back before she says, quiet and devastating,

“It’s not. Officially speaking.”

For one horrible moment, Nile thinks Nicky might attack Andy. If it were anyone else, he might have; anyone else would also have backed away by now. But Andy only keeps his gaze, still and unblinking. When it seems like Nicky cannot speak, Andy continues. 

“But it’s far enough that I believe – it’s our best bet, Nicky. To save him. To keep him.”

Nicky squeezes his eyes shut, and Nile can see his chest rising rapidly. The air around him is buzzing, low but tangible, and she can feel Nicky warring with it, can see Andy’s hand resting over her wand. After a long moment, Nicky opens his eyes again and moves around Andy. She doesn’t stop him this time. The room grows very still as they watch Nicky take in the operating theatre. It must look terrifying: foreign and cold and filled with muggle tech. Celeste and Céline stand opposite each other, two identical figures holding very different instruments. Celeste is projecting a brain scan above Joe’s head; a three-dimensional model outlined in gold, with red glowing through it as they work. She moves around the table and Joe’s face comes into view. Nile looks away. Nicky chokes, and when he does speak, his voice is raw from the sheer effort of keeping it steady.

“Why have they shaved his head?” he asks.

Andy moves to stand beside him, and her hand clenches over his on the edge of the window.

“They have to relieve pressure on the brain,” she says like she’s reciting a prayer.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Nicky says, and then Céline reaches for her tray and Nicky inhales sharply. “What is _that_?”

“It’s a common procedure for this kind of injury,” Andy says, and even her voice isn’t steady anymore. “Listen, Nicky. It’s standard, I swear. They – they drill holes into the skull.”

Nicky jerks back from the window, just in time for Nile to see Céline cut into Joe’s head in one swift motion. Nausea rises through her as Céline secures Joe’s scalp open, so gaping and _wrong_ she can’t comprehend what she’s seeing. She has to close her eyes then, but she still hears it: the high whine of machinery, the gasp that wrenches itself out of Nicky’s throat. When Nile opens her eyes again, Andy has her arms around Nicky like she’s holding him together. She’s cupping the back of his head with one hand, pressing his face against her neck so he doesn’t look through at Joe, at what is being done to him. The gash on his cheek has reopened, bleeding anew, but neither of them seem to notice.

“Andromache,” Nicky says, and his voice is shaking now, cracking. “Why. _Why_ _this_?”

Andy draws back, still holding Nicky’s face. His blood stains her hands.

“Nicolò,” she says, and there is a grief in Andy’s voice that is too ancient and too painful to comprehend. “Nicolò, _you know why_.”

And Nicky shudders, like he’s forcing the answer into his bones. When he nods, his eyes are shining, and when he speaks, the only word he says is a novel.

“ _Quynh_.”

\--

There is one piece of footage that every Quidditch player and spectator has seen, quiet, hushed and best never mentioned again. It is from the last game Andy ever plays in the League; the last game of Andromache and Quynh, the _Scythian_ and the _Pit Viper_. There is little argument that they were the greatest Beaters of their generation, and indeed, of the entire pre-modern era.

In the footage, the camera catches Andy as she arcs into a beautiful shot, so hard the _crack_ of it blows out the audio. Of course, it’s before the game was reformed, post-millennium. Andy has barely any padding on, her bat larger and non-standardised. The bludger is bigger than Nile has ever seen, its solidity and weight evident even through the footage. It’s aimed at the opposing Seeker, who swerves out of the way – just in time for it to cave directly into the side of Quynh’s face.

It is too bad of a hit to be kept in public archive.

The record cuts to the ground, mediwizards blocking the camera’s view. Andy is on her knees beside them. No commentator can find their words. 

The footage jumps forward. By this time, the mediwizards are clearing, some lying back in the grass from sheer exhaustion. Andy’s back is to the camera, leaning over the stretcher. Quynh’s hand comes into view, gripping Andy’s shoulder as she sits up, agonizingly slow. They have reset her face, her skull, even cleared most of the blood off her face.

For a second, the entire stadium exhales.

And then – Quynh begins to scream. Often, the audio cuts here because the sound is too terrible to carry, raw and wild and never-ending, on and on and on as Quynh claws at her own head like she’s trying to tear her scalp off. Andy screams with her and turns on the mediwizards as Quynh lashes out, with an agony too great to witness and yet unable to be seen. Every time it seems to ebb, a new wave builds seconds later, over and over again.

They sedate her, but even unconscious, whatever is wrong keeps going. Quynh’s body is convulsing as they transport her off the pitch.

It is the last time Quynh is ever seen again.

\--

“They fucked up,” Andy says. Healers had arrived to take Nicky away and he had let them, flanked by officials and dripping blood. The look on his face before he leaves will stay with Nile forever, but they all knew he had to go. Nile still can’t look at what Celeste and Céline are doing, so she sits beside Andy instead, hands clasped in front of her. Andy knows she’s praying, but for once, says nothing about it. When Nile finishes and looks across at her, Andy’s staring through the observation window. Nile can see every line cutting into her face. “ _I_ fucked up.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Nile says, and Andy shakes her head; a tired, worn movement. 

“I fucked up and then they did,” she says, and Nile doesn’t argue with her again. “This is why the gear regulations changed, protocol for pitch ops, all of it. They did what we always do: reset, reset, reset. And that magic works well for everything else, but for the brain?” Andy shakes her head again. Her voice is so stiff Nile thinks Andy would shatter if she touched her. “When it works, we forget, and when it fails, it’s an anomaly. And when it came to us?” Andy’s fists clench. “They treated her like we deserved it.”

Nile swallows the anger in her throat and waits for Andy to breathe, to continue.

“Everything healed, physically. But something did not. We can’t test her anymore, but it’s like the moment of impact is just…looping. The nerves misfiring, maybe. Just over and over and over –” Andy cuts off, but her voice is completely dry, like she has been wrung out for so long she can’t even form tears. “I spent ten years trying to figure it out,” she says. “Ten years and nothing.”

“Andy, you came back after that,” Nile says, because every modern player knows this part of the story. “You came back, you made sure proper reform happened. You kept helping. And now you’ve established a new medical procedure, for fuck’s sake!”

The corner of Andy’s mouth twists up.

“And can I guarantee it’ll work, or it won’t be worse than if I’d just let the mediwizards heal him?” she says, and the weight of her question settles over them both. “No. But I couldn’t risk it. Not again.”

Nile takes a breath, because she doesn’t want to ask but she needs to know. Andy glances at her and answers before Nile is forced to form the words.

“She’s a permanent in-patient,” she says. “She can stabilise, with obliviation and a controlled environment. But it’s like PTSD. The loop is still there.” Andy stands like the words hurt too much to sit with and walks slowly to the observation window. Nile keeps her eyes on Andy’s outline, the way her shoulders bow as she says, “I’m the biggest trigger. Even reminders of me would set her off for days, weeks…”

Out of the corner of her eye, Nile sees Céline swap instruments. Andy watches, unblinking and unflinching, like she has to; like it’s penance. When she finally speaks again, her voice is thick. “Nile, I will never see her again. I can only live with it. Knowing that she’s still alive but not _her_ , not anymore. And how much pain she’s in.”

Andy turns, just a little. Her face is completely devoid of colour.

“I’m not letting that happen to Joe and Nicky,” she says. “Whatever it takes. That’s why I did this.”

Nile stands and joins Andy next to the window. She doesn’t look in, just presses her shoulder against Andy’s. 

“I understand,” Nile says, and feels Andy exhale. “Whatever it takes.”

~*~

The last thing Joe remembers is the snitch, just under his fingers –

Pain, greater than he has ever felt, screaming but he doesn’t think it’s him because he can’t speak, blood in his mouth, Andy –

There’s only flashes after that, hospital, lights, great swathes of nothingness, voices, Nicky, _where is Nicky…_

Someone’s hand on his shoulder, waking him.

The room is almost dark, so it takes him a moment to recognise Andy, leaning over him. She smiles when he gets his eyes fully open, and he tries to smile back but can’t quite manage it. His entire head feels numb and yet still hurts.

“Hey there, champ,” she says, voice low. “Just waking you every few hours. You know how it is.”

Joe does. He tries to nod but can’t manage that either. He winces, goes to speak –

He can’t. A horrible gasp grips his throat instead, and when he tries to touch his neck his arms don’t respond. His heart jolts as he suddenly thinks _oh fuck, I’m paralysed, I’m fully paralysed –_

“Hey, hey,” Andy says, and runs a hand down his arm; he can feel that, at least. “It’s okay, you’re just on a lot of potions right now, yeah? Your head got fucked but it’s stable right now. Your voice box is reforming, give it time. Try not to move too much.”

Joe breathes out through his nose, trying to keep it slow. He manages to stretch his hand out and Andy grips it, calloused fingers comfortingly rough over his. He squeezes, twice. 

“Nicky’s fine,” Andy says, but her voice isn’t right. “He’s just – he’s just recovering right now. No, Joe, he’s _fine_ , he’s not injured. He will be here as soon as he can, okay? Joe, calm down, slow breaths, come on.”

She runs through the checks and Joe can feel sleep dragging him back down, but he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to go again without…

He gets woken again, and again, and again. Each time, it’s not Nicky, it’s not Nicky, it’s not Nicky.

~*~

They are still at the hospital ten hours later. Nicky refuses to leave the room the Healers had put him in, long after they’d fixed his face and fractured hands. _Refuses_ is a stretch; he has simply stopped responding. The only time he had moved was when Nile had forcibly started removing his pads. He’d gotten silently out of his gear and showered, changed into the clothes she’d brought him, drank some water but refused to eat, and gone back to sitting on the edge of the bed. He does not speak and he does not look at her. Nile doesn’t leave though; just takes the seat behind him and waits. Each time Andy comes by, Nicky listens to her updates and nods, nothing more. No one states the obvious and tells Nicky to go to Joe. She can almost touch the pain emanating off him; the fear even after the Healers have tested and cleared him at four hours, seven hours, midnight. He sits as far as he can from them and watches his hands. 

Nile has almost dozed off when there’s a commotion in the hallway outside; voices, angry and stricken.

“Ma’am, you can’t –”

“Yes we can, we’re his family –”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but you’re obviously not –”

“ _Excuse_ me? He’s _our brother-in-law_ –”

Nicky looks up. Every movement is slow and stiff, but his eyes refocus as the voices get louder. A moment later the door bangs open, and the al-Kaysani sisters stride in, Zahra in front, Amira closing the door firmly on the officials outside. Ayesha nods at Nile but Zahra beelines for Nicky. He half-raises an arm as if to ward her off, but she ignores it and tackles him into a hug, nearly sending them both back on the bed.

“Zahra, no –” Nicky says, and it’s the first words he’s said in hours, voice hoarse.

“Nicky,” Zahra says, and when she pulls back she has tears in her eyes. “Nicky, you crazy bastard. _Thank you_.”

“ _Zahra_ ,” Ayesha says, and her voice is hard but her expression mirrors her sister’s. Nicky is leaning as far away from Zahra as possible, his hands splayed away from her, but Zahra grips his shoulders and stares into his face.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “Did Keane manage to hurt you or did you just fucking destroy him?”

“That’s enough,” Ayesha says, and Zahra huffs and sits down next to Nicky as Ayesha pulls up the closest chair. Before Nicky can move away, she reaches out and grips his hands. He flinches backwards but she hangs on, face grim.

“Nicky, don’t let it psyche you out or it’ll get worse,” she says, and turns Nicky’s hands over in hers. “See? They’re fine.”

Nicky stares down. His skin is very pale against hers.

“I passed Slater on the way in,” she says, and Nicky nods, minute. “At this point, it’s over to Legal and the League. Right now, you need to focus on keeping your head on straight, and you need to focus on being there for my brother. Can you do that for me?”

Her voice is calm but commanding, and Nicky looks up. Nile would be impressed if she wasn’t so fucking exhausted.

“Our parents are with him right now,” Ayesha says. “You should see him before he goes back to sleep.”

“I…” Nicky says, and a shudder runs through his whole body. Ayesha gasps like she’s been stung, and Nicky jolts up, backing away. “Ayesha, no – are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ayesha says, showing him her hands. “Just a little static.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Nicky says, and puts his head in his hands. “I can’t see him,” he says, voice cracking. “I can’t risk – _I can’t_.”

His back hits the wall and he slides down it, face pressing against his knees as he begins to cry. If the silence had been bad, this is much, much worse; the hours of fear and adrenaline flooding over, culminated and concentrated. Ayesha tries to go to him and hits the same barrier Nile had faced on the pitch, invisible and shocking. The lights of the room begin to flicker.

“Get the Healers,” Ayesha says, and Nile’s already at the door. “Get the Healers before the officials come, quickly now –”

\--

It takes four days for Joe to see Nicky again. By then, Joe is so antsy they’re lucky he’s either unconscious or too weak to move, otherwise he would have tried to escape and Ayesha would’ve killed him for real. Instead, he blinks awake in the late afternoon, and finds Nicky asleep next to him, twisted uncomfortably in the too-small chair. Joe’s heart jumps as he realises it’s not a dream; that Nicky is actually _there_ , within reach. He looks gaunt and exhausted, a jagged scar taking up most of his left cheek. He’s still the best thing Joe has woken up to.

“So,” Joe says. His voice has just started coming back, and he clears his throat. “I heard you fought a Brit for me.”

Nicky jolts up, half-rising out of his chair before he’s fully conscious. When he realises Joe is awake, his eyes widen, as green as the first time Joe had seen them and just as worried. Joe’s words register a moment later, and a laugh rises out of Nicky’s throat, shaky and trembling. It sounds like the first time Nicky has exhaled in days.

“Andy showed me the footage,” Joe says, smiling at him. Every stretch of his skin twinges. “Shit, Nicky. You just had to outdo me, didn’t you?”

Nicky chokes out another laugh and sits back down. He sways towards Joe like he can’t help it, but his hands remain by his side, fingers clenching around the edge of his seat.

“Nicky,” Joe says and reaches out a hand. “Nicky, it’s okay.”

Nicky shakes his head.

“You’ve seen –” he starts, and then his throat seems to close before he can carry on. He looks down before speaking again. “We have to be careful. Especially during immediate recovery –”

“Yes, _my_ immediate recovery,” Joe says. “And right now, the patient needs his love to hold his hand. Jump to it, champ.”

That’s enough to get Nicky to look up, incredulity colouring his face. Joe wiggles his eyebrows even though it hurts his face, and the corners of Nicky’s mouth lift, just a little. Joe remembers the first time he’d seen Nicky’s smile, his _real_ smile, and how he’d immediately thought _well shit, we’ve got to see that again_. No matter how bad things have gotten, Joe has always prided himself on being able to draw one out of Nicky. Slowly, Nicky takes Joe’s hand and Joe squeezes, triumphant. After a moment, Nicky seems to accept that nothing will explode and squeezes back. His eyes run over Joe’s face like he’s trying to catalogue it, and Joe waits, watching him back. 

“Joe,” Nicky says finally, and all traces of his smile are gone. “Joe, I’m so – I’m so sorry. _Oh Dio,_ I’m sorry.” His hand is hot under Joe’s, skin almost tingling. “I should have been here earlier,” Nicky says. “I should have stopped this. I _should have_ …” He cuts off, jaw working, and takes a rigid breath in. The grief radiating off him is so strong Joe can’t find his words, and Nicky stares at him, face wretched. “I’m sorry,” he says like he doesn’t even know what for anymore. “How are you…how are you feeling?”

“Like ass, as Nile would say,” Joe replies, trying to smile. “But much better than before. How about you, _amore mio_?”

Nicky shakes his head, pulling back, but at least he doesn’t let go.

“I’m fine,” he says, and Joe gives him a pointed look. Nicky sighs. “Things have started…Things are about to…”

 _Get really fucked_ , Joe finishes for him, but doesn’t say it. He knows that beyond the haven of his hospital room, absolute chaos must have already descended: on the League, the Guard, and most importantly, on _Nicky_ , at the epicentre of it all. Joe wants to hold him so badly his arms ache with it, but he can barely get out of bed right now. He wants to run outside and tell everyone else to fuck off; to stand beside Nicky as the inevitable comes for them. His own inability makes him grind his teeth, which only aggravates the headache that now sits constant under his skull. _Everything_ aggravates that headache.

Joe knows that being alive right now is a miracle. He knows what Andy had done, knows why, knows the possible alternatives. He should be grateful, to have the dexterity and speech and movement he has now, only five days later. But not being able to reach Nicky, when he’s so close and yet so lost in his own mind, makes Joe feel weaker than he’d imagined possible. It’s such an ugly feeling that he can taste it, acrid and cloying, and he grimaces, wincing. Nicky is leaning over him in a second. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and Joe shakes his head. Up close, the scar on Nicky’s cheek looks angry and raw, and Joe raises his other hand to Nicky’s face –

Nicky flinches back.

Joe freezes, hand caught in the air before he’s forced to drop it, too weak to keep his arm up. Nicky stares at him, horror and guilt all over his face, and Joe thinks this must be a bad dream – but no. He’s in too much pain to be asleep.

“ _Scusa_ ,” Nicky says, like he has nothing else left to say. “ _Mi dispiace_.”

Joe opens his mouth to reply – and his stomach lurches as he expects words to be there and…nothing is. He swallows past the fear of that, tight in his chest now, and tries again.

“ _Tesoro mio_ ,” he says, and Nicky looks at him, face creasing. “It’s okay. I’m okay. We’ll get through this. I love you. _I love you_.”

“I –” Nicky starts, but then there’s a knock on the door and the Healers are coming in for Joe’s afternoon check-up. Nicky sits back like he’s been caught doing something wrong, and his hand slips from Joe’s. Joe doesn’t have the strength to stop him.

~*~

“Joe,” Nile says, “stop trying to eavesdrop. You know they’ve soundproofed the room.”

Joe makes a face at her, which immediately makes him wince, and resumes their endless circuit of the garden. Nicky, Caitlin and Slater are visible in the study, bent over the table. They’re surrounded by stacks of accumulating files, their faces lit by the glow of a table-top projection, replaying The Incident on loop. As Joe watches, Slater pauses it with his wand and says something that makes Caitlin throw up her hands. He gestures back, equally exasperated. Nicky says nothing. It’s been a common scene over the last week. 

Nile’s hand is gentle around Joe’s elbow as she turns him away from the house.

“You good?” she asks, and then raises an eyebrow at him when he nods. “Like, actually good, or actually sore and lying about it so I don’t make you go back to bed?”

Joe laughs, remembering to keep it small.

“I was on bedrest for seven whole days,” he says, emphasising the horror with a shudder. “Let me enjoy my escape from hospital, Nile.”

“Nicky will have my head if you’re being dumb about it,” Nile says, but keeps walking with him. Their steps feel like slow motion. Joe knows that Nicky would be with him if he could be, quietly keeping pace. But from the moment Joe has been discharged, Nicky has been occupied for great swathes of the day.

Having your entire life fall apart can do that to your schedule.

The League restricts Nicky from all games and practices effective immediately, while they deliberate on a formal punishment. Their house is now headquarters for a relentless roster of Guard personnel and Healers, and there’s no escaping it because reporters are crawling over any place Nicky might go to. It feels like house arrest, and claustrophobia has Joe itching to stay out of bed. Nicky is trying to sit through hours of strategy and press prep without disturbing him, since he still can’t stand too much noise, but it’s worse, knowing Nicky is being grilled without knowing what’s being said.

“Any news updates worth hearing about?” Joe asks, and Nile sighs, blowing air through her cheeks.

“Honestly…” she says, and they both grimace. “Everybody wants an angle, and he’s been playing for so long there’s just endless content to go through.” She gestures as they walk. “On one hand, he’s always been so professional that there’s not much dirt to dig up, but also so private that all people know him for is being a Beater. And that’s a lot of footage of him hitting people.”

Joe grits his teeth. He knows exactly what that makes people say; what people can assume of Nicky without ever knowing him off-pitch. He remembers Nicky after he’d knocked Joe out, shaken and trembling; Nicky, talking excitedly about obscure stats during their first dinner together; Nicky, getting out of bed to check on Chris during all-nighters; Nicky, coaching their Little League team in Joe’s neighbourhood over summer. Joe’s heart aches in his chest, exacerbated by his inability to fix things, to solve them.

“Bet you’re all being hounded for quotes,” Joe says, and Nile shrugs in a nonchalant way that can only mean _yes._

“We’ve been told not to say too much until the League makes their call,” she says. “But yeah, the character trial is bullshit.” She pauses. “It’s also bigger than Quidditch, you know? The old debate over wandless magic right now is…” She clicks her tongue. “You don’t want to be at a bar when an Italian and a Brit start that conversation, trust me.” She laughs, but it’s a tired, hollow sound. Joe’s already asked after her; is trying to give her as much support as he can, even as they leave her without alternates. He knows she won’t accept his apologies or Nicky’s guilt, but still. Before he can broach the topic again, Nile’s phone chimes.

“Meds time,” she says, and Joe grumbles. He’s nauseous so often now that keeping anything down is a real bitch. Nile puts a hand around his back to mock-push him towards the house, and he slings an arm around her shoulders and squeezes. When she leans her head against him, just for a moment, he presses a kiss against her hair.

Joe can’t stand the smell of his evening potions before they’re mixed, so he escapes down the hallway while Nile preps. He pauses outside the study, just close enough to hear.

“I think that’s the most we can do,” Slater is saying tiredly. “The fact that Keane used much heavier spells on you, and that your wandless magic was more defensive and didn’t cause injury are good bets. The rest is…” his voice grows quieter, and Joe strains to hear.

“Hang on,” Caitlin says. Her voice is clear but hoarse, and Joe’s heart squeezes. She shouldn’t be managing this level of disaster, but in another grand addition to Nicky’s guilt-fest, Aida has just gone on maternity leave. Despite Nicky’s protestations, Aida is dialling in when she can with a newborn in tow, while Caitlin spearheads the case full-time. Caitlin has been in charge of Joe’s portfolio – and by proxy, Nicky’s – for so long now that she seems to be taking it very personally. Chris has shown up a few times for the express purpose of making her take a break.

“Nicky, off the record,” Caitlin says. “Just tell me. What were you intending here? And did you mean to go wandless?”

There’s a long pause, and Joe knows they’re re-watching the footage again, as if they haven’t already memorised every angle of the event. When Nicky speaks, his voice is almost unrecognisable.

“I wanted to hurt him,” he says. “And I didn’t mean to go wandless.”

The silence that follows tells Joe that Nicky has just said the worst answers to both questions.

“Firstly,” Caitlin says, and her tone makes Joe’s heart jump. “ _Never_ say that in public.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Nicky says, and Slater lets out a noise that might have been a laugh if it weren’t for the context.

“Alright,” Caitlin says. “I just – wanted to know. For me. And we can discuss that as a separate issue. But right now, I’m pretty sure Joe is eavesdropping outside.”

“How the hell did you know?” Joe asks, pushing the door open.

“Don’t I always?” Caitlin says, stretching. “Shit, is that the time?”

Slater shuts off the projection, looking relieved, and Nicky stands. He smiles at Joe, small but present, and for a moment, everything is fine. It’s only when Nicky passes by him to go help Nile that Joe feels the jolt of dissonance; the realisation that he’s inherently expecting something after it doesn’t happen. A brief hand on his arm, or hip, or _something_. It’s always been so natural, how they touch each other; never overt when other people are present, but always there. Joe doesn’t realise how integral it is to his understanding of Nicky, of _them_ , until Nicky stops doing it. They haven’t even had time to discuss it. Joe isn’t sure he can without feeling selfish.

Because despite his own clusterfuck, Nicky is a model caregiver. There are so many uncertainties around Joe’s novel surgery that the Healers have Nicky on watch for _everything_ , and overseeing so many regimens that Joe has lost count. Nicky does it all without break or complaint, and is one of the few people who can do so without Joe going mad. Because Nicky understands what it’s like for them to be injured: the reflexive disgust at being an invalid, the crippling helplessness that tastes bitterly of shame. Even if Nicky’s never been injured so badly, he knows the visceral desire – no, _necessity –_ to be able to play Quidditch again. Nobody will broach the topic just yet. It’s not a good sign.

Joe knows Nicky lies awake with him at night and feels the overwhelming terror that is unavoidable this early on. They both taste it when Joe struggles to walk steadily or hold complex spells; head constantly aching and dizzy. But whenever Joe looks at Nicky, his face is set and steady, even when Joe’s fear and nausea manifest in irritability. Anger rings in Joe’s ears every time he thinks about what this injury could cost him. Rage rises so rapidly in his chest he can barely breathe. It happens so uncontrollably now that Joe feels alien in his own brain, in a body that already doesn’t feel like his own.

Maybe that’s why Nicky has stopped touching him. Joe has to grit his teeth every time that insidious little thought crops up, because no, _no_. He knows it’s not about him, per se; sees how careful Nicky is now, around everyone who passes through their home. When Joe asks, Nicky will answer, but there’s such a quiet, cavernous pain in his voice that Joe doesn’t push. When Joe wakes at night, every night now, he finds Nicky lying inches away from him, tense and rigid. He still flinches away from Joe if caught by surprise, and every time sits like a brand across Joe’s fingers.

So he tries: tries to swallow down his own bewilderment and frustration and fear. Tries to be a good patient, tries to wait. Tries to ignore the dread that hangs over them both, heavy and smothering and inescapable.

It’ll get better. It has to.

~*~

It gets worse.

The League officially suspends Nicolò Genovese for the full remainder of the season. Considering the decision is announced by late September, Nicky will lose an entire regular season from his career, and any playoff games the Guard may make. Additionally, he is banned from all team practices and public gatherings, and from attending any EQL games and related events.

Nicky is at Andy’s when the public announcement is made, and he stays there for a very long time, long enough that Joe goes to bed. When he wakes at two a.m., the bed is cold and empty. It takes a groggy moment for Joe to remember what’s happened, and then he’s wide awake, trying to calm the roiling anger and fear he feels at Nicky’s suspension. There are so many pain points to the suspension that Joe can barely comprehend it: kneecapping Nicky’s career at its height, the consequences of losing an entire season of training, cutting Nicky off from the League he has called family since seventeen.

After a while, it is clear that Joe is not falling back asleep. He refuses to keep painkillers by the bed, so he gropes around for his dressing gown before heading out. He keeps the lights off and grips the banister, still unsteady down the stairs. The kitchen lights are on. Joe squints as he rounds the corner, and Nicky looks up from the counter. He still has his jacket on, a bottle of wine open next to him.

“Joe,” he says, and his voice is almost unrecognisable. “Sorry – did I wake you?”

“No,” Joe says, eyes running over Nicky’s face. He is very pale and very still, eyes sunken in his face. Joe cannot think what to say. The silence between them is unbearable, too heavy to carry but too acute to face. Joe moves slowly around the counter, and Nicky watches him like he’s cornered.

“Nicolò,” Joe says, and puts his arms around Nicky’s neck, drawing him in. “It’s alright.”

Nicky’s head shakes against Joe’s shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything. He is rigid all over, but as Joe holds him, Nicky’s hands come up to grip at Joe’s back. Joe kisses the top of his head, unable to stop the tears that sting his eyes, running into Nicky’s hair. _A whole season_. A whole goddamn season ripped out of Nicky’s life, when it _is_ Nicky’s life, their lives, both adrift now.

“I’m sorry,” Joe says very quietly. He cradles the back of Nicky’s head and squeezes as Nicky makes a choked noise against his neck. “I’m sorry, Nicolò.”

When Nicky finally begins to cry, it’s like a broken dam trying to keep back a flood. Joe can feel Nicky desperately holding himself in even as sobs wrack his entire body; rendering him breathless even as he barely makes a sound. Nicky clutches at Joe like he is an anchor against his grief, even though Joe feels like anything but. He thought he’d felt helpless before, bedridden and immobile. It doesn’t compare to this: hearing Nicky’s choked off cries and being unable to stop them; holding onto him so tightly and still having him shake apart. They stay there for a long time, locked together. There’s nothing else they can do.

~*~

Joe will never know how they live through October.

On one hand, Joe starts walking steady again. His headaches are less frequent and slightly less intense. He knows it’s a miracle – aided, just as Andy had said, by magical medicine post-surgery. Regardless, it’s hard to stay grateful when he has spent his life at the peak of wizarding athleticism, and can feel the sheer amount of strength he’s lost with every step. To just return to a healthy baseline is not the point. The _point_ is whether he can play Quidditch again, and Celeste’s answer remains so uncertain that uneasiness crawls under Joe’s scalp, keeping him awake. He is tested so frequently that he feels like a lab rat, trapped on the same wheel and never seeing the progress he wants.

He tries to distract himself: he draws, he reads, works on design suggestions for his clothing co-line. He hangs out with Booker a lot, which is one of the few things keeping him sane. If there’s one thing Booker understands, it’s a long and bumpy recovery, where every day is a new battle in the same damn trench as last week. Booker listens to Joe bitch about it with endless patience and ribs him like nothing has changed. It is calming to see Booker so healthy; to laugh with him again like they are back in the locker room together.

There’s just one thing: Booker’s new job.

He had indeed become a sports analyst; with his background, broadcasting networks had been vying for him since he’d reappeared, and he’d been able to negotiate a good deal. Part of that deal was not being forced on camera before he was ready. He’d eased into the job during preseason, and then – well. It’s just another thing to add to Nicky’s Guilt Trip List.

“So,” Joe says one afternoon when Nicky is out. “How’s being on the dark side?”

Booker rolls his eyes from where he’s shaping his sourdough. Apparently he is _that guy_ now, and Joe is an unwitting complicit.

“I’m not actually press,” he says, and Joe waves a hand.

“Semantics,” he says. “Your departments are cousins. Close enough to be tainted.”

“They’re mostly lovely,” Booker says, and Joe makes a gagging noise. “Don’t act like you don’t have press friends, Joe.”

“It’s the principle of the matter,” Joe says, and then looks at Booker, smile turning down. “Seriously though. How bad is it? I can still avoid most of it but Nicky…” he sighs. “It sounds horrific even when he’s downplaying it.”

Booker grimaces.

“I won’t lie,” he says. “It’s…unprecedented.”

“Ugh, gross,” Joe says, lobbing a tea towel at him. “You _sound_ like one of them.”

“Mm,” Booker says, absentmindedly catching the towel and folding it neatly in his hands. “But it really is. Especially with how controversial the call is…there’s an endless amount to dissect there.”

“They asking you to talk?” Joe says. The lines deepen around Booker’s mouth as he says,

“Yeah, for sure. They’re nice about it since I’m new and all, but – you know. It’s where the viewership is. And I’m being hounded for interviews by everyone else anyway; better to do it there, on my terms.” He gives Joe a small smile. “Could do some good, to be honest. Set the record straight instead of just yelling from my couch.”

Joe reaches out and grips Booker’s arm.

“You know Nicky would never ask –” he says, and Booker nods, cutting him off.

“Trust me, I know,” he says. “So when it happens, remind him it’s my choice, and he can stop taking the blame for literally everything.”

“You tell him that,” Joe mutters, and Booker raises an eyebrow at him.

“Not to be obtuse,” he says, “but you two all good? Can’t be easy, cooped up here with both of you going through hell.”

Joe leans back a little. It’s not an unexpected question, but it’s different coming from Booker, who knows both of them so well. Nicky and Booker had reconnected after his retirement like they’d never drifted apart, and it fascinates Joe to remember that Booker had adopted Nicky as a rookie, so long ago now. The history there makes Booker’s eyes particularly piercing as he waits for Joe’s answer. He’s not much older than Joe but that makes it worse, to know how much Booker has been through and lost. Joe looks at him and finds himself unable to lie.

“I’m not sure,” he says, and then wants to shove his words back down his own throat because he has _always_ been sure about Nicky, and he is. He knows he loves Nicky more than he can express and he knows Nicky feels the same; has proved it to Joe a thousand times over even when he doesn’t need to. They love each other so much it’s tearing them apart, unable to witness the other suffer so much and be so powerless about it. Booker’s face softens.

“What are you not sure about?” he asks. Joe shakes his head and goes to run a hand through his hair, forgetting that it’s still shorter than expected.

“He’s trying so hard,” he says. “And he’s perfect with me, and that’s –” Joe stops, searching for words that don’t immediately contradict. “That’s not what I want. That’s not what he needs,” Joe says, and is overwhelmingly grateful when Booker nods.

“What do you want?” Booker asks carefully, and Joe sighs, fatigue gnawing at him far sooner than it should.

“I just want him to be free,” he says. “Of the ban, the attention, being stuck here, looking after me –” his voice wavers, and he clenches his hands. “I hate that I make him – so _worried_ –”

“Hey,” Booker says, and his hands are warm around Joe’s shoulders. His face is so understanding Joe can barely look at him. “That’s the price you pay,” Booker says, “to have this life, and to love as deeply as you do.” He smiles like he’s remembering something too sweet and too sad all at once. “But that’s a choice. And he’s chosen to be here, Joe, with you, every day. You want to try make Nicky do something he doesn’t want to, really?”

Joe smiles a little, conceding the point, and then laughs as Booker pulls him into a back-slapping hug. They’re both covered in flour by the time Nicky gets home. 

~*~

In the end, Joe catches Booker on broadcast the way he catches most of his news now: overhearing it in the middle of the night.

They’re in such bad sleeping patterns by mid-October that Joe will often wake without Nicky by his side. Joe is fitful and Nicky wakes too easily; Joe tends to wake when Nicky’s not asleep. So it’s hard to argue against sleeping apart, aside from the fact that Joe _hates_ it. Sometimes, when he can’t bear it anymore, he’ll get up in the dark and find Nicky in one of the guest rooms, also wide awake. Sometimes he’ll be trying to read, or analysing gameplay to continue helping the team. Joe knows it hurts him: to only be able to watch, and to watch the Guard struggle under their sudden loss. Joe also knows Nicky does it at night to hide it from him, so he doesn’t have to see Quidditch at all.

When it’s particularly bad, he’ll find Nicky watching the news. 

Joe is glad he’d been medically banned from broadcasts for the first month. He’s not sure how much more anger he can harbour before his head explodes, which is a more literal feeling than he’d like to admit. But Nicky – Nicky hasn’t been able to hide at all. He’s lived in inquiries and meetings and press conferences for the last month, and even as he retreats from the public eye post-ban, the press fervour continues. Joe knows everybody’s trying to filter Nicky’s intake, but they’re not around to stop him at three a.m. This time, Nicky’s in the living room, lights off, broadcast glaringly bright in the dark. Joe stops in the hallway, just listening. It’s a bunch of pundits from Booker’s network earlier that afternoon, which means Nicky had recorded it to torture himself with now.

“– I mean, they say he only meant to block Keane when he went wandless,” one is saying, and Joe grits his teeth. Not _this_ again. “But who knows what Genovese was really intending, or how far he would’ve gone if they hadn’t stunned him? He says he was in control of it, despite no notable training, but does that really seem like someone who’s in control? He looks practically unhinged, for God’s sake –”

“Oh, come on,” a second voice says. “There’s no point speculating like that. He’s given his statement and it matches what happened to Keane, which thankfully did not cause injury. We’ve all seen the fight a thousand times –”

“I mean, looking ahead,” a third pundit says. “I’m more interested to see if the ICWQC allows Genovese to play in the World Cup this January.”

“Yes, great question,” the second pundit says. “They’re a different governing body to the EQL, but it would be a bad look to rule differently. Historically speaking, they’ve tended to follow League decisions.”

The third pundit laughs.

“God, I’d hate to be in Italy if that’s what’s announced. Especially after such a close loss four years ago. In terms of Worlds, Genovese doesn’t have that many opportunities left. And we know Team Italy were likely to appoint him Captain this time, too. The country will riot.”

“Frankly,” Pundit One says, “I find Italy’s hero worship of Genovese quite disturbing. He’s obviously not the role model they make him out to be, and yet they’ll blindly support him –”

“Hey now,” the second pundit says, tone sharpening. “Let’s not forget that Genovese has many supporters, and not just from his home country. Players have drawn wands before and not received such a harsh punishment, his suspension is controversial for a reason –”

“He did a lot more than draw,” Pundit One retorts.

“And so did Atkinson, eight years ago,” Pundit Two snaps back. “But I suppose it’s different when you’re British, huh?”

“Alright,” Pundit Three says quickly as Pundit One splutters. “Let’s save that for when we speak with the EQL tomorrow.”

“As if they’ll ever admit to bias,” Pundit Two scoffs, just as Pundit One says,

“Either way, my point stands. I’ll bet a lot of Genovese’s supporters are simply fans that want to see him play. We cannot just support him because he plays well; he obviously has issues –”

“Issues?” a new voice says, and Joe straightens as he recognises Booker. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

Everyone falls silent for a moment. Booker’s voice is calm and clear, and cuts through the rising agitation like a knife. Joe quietly rounds the corner. Nicky’s on the couch, back to Joe. Booker looks a little pale under the studio lights, but his shoulders are relaxed and open, camera catching his good side.

“Anger?” Pundit One says, raising a finger. “The inability to separate his personal and professional life? A lack of control over his magic?”

“Right,” Booker says, head tilting. “And is that coming from a long history of these issues, or is it actually so out of character that it makes a good story?”

When none of the other speakers seem to have a quick answer, Booker continues.

“I understand the concern around glorifying players. Regarding the points you just raised, it would be a serious concern if Nicky had a history of fouls and fights and excess anger. But he doesn’t. In fact, before this, I clearly remember that the media’s biggest complaint was that he’s so professional it makes him very boring. Anything newsworthy came from his play, which yes, included violence because it’s Quidditch, and he’s a _Beater_. If you wish to critique the game, that’s fine, but that’s a separate conversation.”

Booker pauses, but the other speakers seem as transfixed as Joe is.

“As for his personal life, I mean – it took a season for people to confirm he and Joe were even together, and that was precisely because of the personal-professional divide. Even after they went public, it’s been pretty uneventful. And that’s despite being with _Joe_ _al-Kaysani_ , who, as we all know, loves a camera.”

The other pundits laugh, because – well. Joe will let Booker have that one.

“I’m not excusing what Nicky did,” Booker says. “But I am looking at it from the context it was in, rather than a context that makes it a scandal. I daresay most of us would’ve had an extreme reaction at seeing our loved ones almost killed.”

Booker’s voice remains amiable, but his last words make Joe shiver. Nicky has not moved an inch since Joe had rounded the corner.

“With all due respect,” Pundit One says, because of course they do. “You’re particularly biased by your close friendship with Genovese, correct? Or do you feel like you’ve missed something, if this is so out of character for him? Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?”

Booker stares. In public, he has always been an affable and humours figure, rarely becoming serious, let alone upset. Right now, however, he looks like he’s back in front of the goal hoops: focused, steady and dangerous. It’s a subtle shift. Joe prepares himself.

“Fascinating,” Booker says, and while his voice is still perfectly polite, there is a chill in it that makes the other pundits go still. “So I’m both too biased by actually knowing him for over a decade, and also incorrect because I didn’t predict his reaction to this specific event?”

“I simply mean –” Pundit One says, but Booker shakes his head and says,

“I know what you mean. But if everyone is making sweeping character assessments like we’re all judges, then I’ll give mine, as the only person at this table who knows him.” He sits forward, and they cut to a close up. Booker’s eyes are as clear as ice. “I have known Nicky since he first started in the League. I didn’t just play with him – he lived with me. In fact, he lived with myself, my wife, and my sons.”

Everybody’s eyes widen. Booker _never_ talks about his family. From the moment he’d returned from his year off, it has been basically contractual to not ask him about it; Joe can’t imagine that’s changed. So this is Booker, choosing to say this.

“Everybody wants to know: what is Nicolò Genovese is really like? Are the endless exposés and op-eds and interviews we’ve gotten since he was a _child_ inaccurate? And I’ll tell you that Nicky does not have the wherewithal to act. What you see is what you get. He’s been under international scrutiny from such a young age; to suddenly infer that his desire for privacy is to hide something sinister is an illogical reach to me. So many players and personnel have come out, on record, in support of him; people he’s worked with, played with _and_ against.”

“Booker,” Pundit Two says, almost hesitant. “A lot of footage has been dug up over the last month, including of Genovese’s first year, where he really had quite the temper on pitch. Did this concern you at all, considering he was living with you and your – your family?”

“No more so than with any other teenager under extraordinary pressure,” Booker says, voice steady. “Every player in his position has to learn how to manage that, and I’m proud to say that he did. Probably too well, since he got called boring for the next decade.”

“He still shouldn’t be considered a role model,” Pundit One says, stubborn. “Especially when he has so many young fans and players that look up to him. Children shouldn’t –”

“See that their hero can make mistakes, get punished for it and then grow from it?” Booker asks. His mouth is almost smiling, but his eyes are unfathomable. “Or are we saying this one moment cancels out everything else he’s ever done, even as he’s paying for it?”

“Well, _is_ it just one moment?” Pundit One says, and Joe has to manually unclench his jaw. “Or has this been a risk since he lived with you?”

Booker takes a slow breath in. Pundit One almost looks like they’re about to keep talking, but the expression on Booker’s face stops them.

“I had to trust Nicky in my home from the day he arrived,” Booker says, voice soft. “My sons were five and six years old. My wife was pregnant with our third. None of them had magic.” Joe can see the tense line of Booker’s jaw, almost too clear on camera. “So I think it’s fair to say that no one took the issue more seriously than I did.” He shifts. “Many things about Nicky have not changed since then. He’s stubborn, he’s awkward, he’s hardworking to a fault. He’s terrifyingly good at his job, but never by fouls. That’s all public knowledge.”

Booker’s chest rises, and he closes his eyes for a brief second.

“In private…he became a brother to my sons. Even when he was stressed and alone and could barely speak French, even when they were goading him constantly – he looked after them when he was never asked to. And with Corinne –” Booker stops and clears his throat. His eyes are bright. “Nicky _helped deliver our son_ , for God’s sake, when I couldn’t be there. I have seen him at his worst times and he has been there for mine. So, from knowing him that well, and trusting him with that much – no, I don’t think it’s been a risk since then. And before we carry on with the public character trial that’s so popular at the moment, maybe consider a little logic, a little dignity. Maybe some compassion. That’s what Nicky would do, anyway.”

The broadcast switches off and the lounge is plunged into darkness. Joe hears his own breathing, more laboured than it should be from simply standing there. Slowly, Nicky turns his head.

“Well,” Joe says, voice too loud in the dark. “Guess we owe him a gift basket.”

Nicky doesn’t laugh. Joe steps forward, but before he reaches the couch, Nicky stands, taking two steps to the centre of the living room. He faces Joe but he’s looking down, moonlight not bright enough to illuminate his features.

“That was good,” Joe says, because the silence is too heavy after what they’ve just watched. “Really shut down that first dickhead –”

“They were right,” Nicky says. His voice is wretched.

“Nicky,” Joe says, exasperation rising because they’ve been here, they’ve been through this – “Booker wasn’t the only one supporting you there, even if the others are meant to be ‘balanced’ or whatever. And you know Booker’s right, you have so much support from so many people. Booker’s statement is just another in the long list –”

“He shouldn’t have done that,” Nicky says, his voice thick, and Joe is _so tired_ of seeing Nicky hurting like this, standing straight even as his edges start to crack. “They made him –”

“He _chose_ to,” Joe says. “He was always going to speak for you, and this was the best platform for that –”

“He lied,” Nicky says, and Joe stops. Nicky runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it. “I wasn’t – there was one time – I wasn’t good with –” he cuts himself off and takes a deep, painful breath. “The pundit was right,” he says, voice low. “I lied. I wasn’t in control, I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted…” He stops again. It’s too dark to see if there are tears on his cheeks.

“Nicky,” Joe says, and he doesn’t want to sound like he is pleading but it goddamn feels like it. “Please come back to bed. Let’s think about this in the morning, okay?”

Nicky sways, and Joe’s heart lifts before Nicky says, very quietly,

“You go. I – I’ll take a guest room.”

Nicky still isn’t looking at him, six steps away. It may as well be six continents.

Joe goes.

~*~

In the last week of October, Nicky wakes to find a note on his bedside table.

 _Tesoro_ , it says in Joe’s beautiful handwriting. _Gone for test flight, Celeste had to move it earlier. Wish me luck! Be back for lunch. Love you. x_

Nicky’s heart jolts as he reads the words _test flight_. Joe had been looking forward to it for a while now, to really see how he was, back on a broom. Every Healer has been tempering his expectations after being grounded for so long, but Joe’s recovery has been better than projected. They’re all cautiously optimistic. The Healers always remark on Nicky’s perfect adherence to Joe’s potions schedule and neuro-physical exercises, which they all know Joe wouldn’t adhere half as well without him, and Joe always grins at him and winks. In those moments, they feel like a team again. Nicky misses those moments.

His fingers brush over the _Love you. x_ in Joe’s looping script, and his chest constricts. He knows how frustrated Joe is, with himself and with his injury, but also with Nicky, as he struggles to keep his head up. No, that’s not fair – Joe is endlessly patient and empathetic and always trying to make Nicky laugh; always there when Nicky cries. He knows Joe worries about him, even when Nicky’s not the one who nearly died. He’s just the one who fucked up so badly they can barely leave the house; the one who has abandoned Nile as Captain, forced Chris into a role he was not ready for, and left the team struggling in the air and harassed on the ground. He knows front office has been working overtime since The Incident, knows all of Joe’s friends and family have been accosted by press and public alike, either in support or opposition it doesn’t matter, they shouldn’t have to bear it –

At least, Nicky thinks, he didn’t have many people to warn on his side. No one who wasn’t already involved with Quidditch in some way and already understood the politics of it. He’d left his brother a message the day of, because Gianvi’s PR team deserved a little warning at least. He’d gotten no reply. He hadn’t been expecting one per se, but still, he’d thought – well. He’d thought wrong. 

Nicky goes through his new morning routine: breakfast, checking in on the team, secretly checking the news, home gym for several hours, shower. He’s making lunch when he hears the front door slam.

“Joe?” he asks, cautious.

There’s no answer, but a moment later Joe comes stalking through the kitchen, not even glancing at Nicky as he passes. He beelines for the sliding doors, out onto their back deck and down into the garden. Nicky watches the stiff line of his back and follows.

Joe has stopped in the middle of the grass, facing the trees. His fists are clenched at his sides, and his shoulders are hunched in that way Nicky knows means he’s in pain but won’t say.

“Joe,” Nicky says, several steps behind him. “What happened?”

“What do you _think_?” Joe says, voice sharp, but at least he always responds; doesn’t go silent like Nicky does. He’s grateful for that.

“They said it might take longer –” he says, and Joe whirls to face him. His eyes are blazing.

“They said I should at least be able to _fly_ ,” he says, voice rising. “Nothing fancy, nothing high, just be up there for a while, just _fly_ –” his mouth twists, expression ugly with grief and fear and self-loathing, plain to see. Nicky feels the same emotions grip him; his own flight time has plummeted with his suspension, and that already makes him feel like he’s been hacked off at the knees. Joe has been flying since before he could run properly. To not be able to fly, even casually, is a horror they never wanted to contemplate. Nicky feels his palms itch and takes several deep breaths, counting them. Joe watches him, his expression still twisted.

“How long were you up for?” Nicky asks.

“Not long enough,” Joe says, which means he _was_ flying at least, to some extent.

“Do you go too high too quickly?” Nicky asks, trying to figure it out. Joe’s expression darkens.

“For God’s sake, Nicky!” he says, and Nicky stares at him. “Can you just – yes, I went up because I felt good, I felt _great_ , I was flying again, even if I was flying like a child. And then my goddamn head –” Joe raises a hand and presses it against his forehead, grimacing.

“Okay,” Nicky says, feeling his own heartbeat in his temples. “Okay, and did they set another date for a test flight? Or do we wait?”

“Nicky,” Joe says, and his voice is caught between supplication and frustration. Nicky feels the familiar tug in his fingertips, wanting so badly to help but being too afraid to act. “Can’t you just – be angry with me, rage with me, something, _something_ other than this fucking calmness I know you’re pretending to have –”

Joe’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, and Nicky feels the same turmoil under his skin. He clenches his hands.

“I have to be calm,” he says, looking away from Joe’s eyes, the open wound of his expression. “I have to, or else – I’m sorry –”

“It’s not –” Joe says, and gestures like he wants to shake Nicky but can’t bridge the gap between them. “I just want – I just want _you_ , I just want –”

Joe’s been lost for words more times in the last two months than in all the years Nicky’s known him. It never fails to make his blood run cold.

“What do you want?” Nicky asks, voice very small to his own ears. “What do you want me to do?”

Joe stares at him. For the first time, Nicky can’t read his expression.

“I have to go,” Joe says, and strides past Nicky, back towards the house. “I’m sorry, Nicky, but I have to –”

Nicky follows several steps behind as Joe moves through the kitchen and past the hallway. For a moment Nicky remembers them, embracing in the foyer when Nicky had first told Joe he was coming to the Guard. A lifetime ago; moving in the opposite direction. Fear grips Nicky’s throat as Joe throws open the front door and walks out, as he realises what Joe’s about to do.

“Joe!” he says, voice rising. “Joe, you can’t apparate that far with your head injury –”

“Fucking watch me,” Joe says, and vanishes.

\--

Booker answers Andy’s door just in time for Joe to throw up all over his feet.

“Wow,” Booker says, annoyingly chill. “I assume that’s payback for whenever I did that to you?”

“Sure,” Joe says, still doubled over. “That’s what it is.”

“Either that, or you were trying to make a quick exit and apparated too far for your head,” Andy says. Joe looks up to glare at her but it’s an undignified angle. She cleans up the mess he’s made and pulls him inside.

“Alright, dumbass,” she says, manhandling him to the couch. Booker brings him water and a wry smile. “Test flight?”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “Not good.”

“Which isn’t great, but not unexpected, yeah?” Andy says, sitting beside him. “But still sucks.”

“Yeah,” he says, and leans back against the couch, closing his eyes. His headache’s back, of course. “I get that. But…Nicky…”

Andy and Booker both hum, and he cracks one eye open to glare at them as they share one of their Looks.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, and Booker laughs.

“Lips are zipped,” he says, and flops down on the recliner opposite them. “Though I’ll bet on a measly ten minutes.”

“Fifteen,” Andy says, and Joe flips them both off. The fear and frustration bites at him whenever he moves, but he knows it will pass, or at least recede. He will fly again, he _will_ , properly too. He will never stop believing that because he can’t. But he needs to rage it out of his system; needs to lean into the turmoil before he can let it go. And he wants to do that with Nicky, who would understand him perfectly if he wasn’t so intent on being mature, wrapped inside his own nightmares. Joe keeps his eyes closed, and Andy and Booker talk softly around him, Andy’s hand smoothing down his arm.

Fifteen minutes later exactly, there’s a knock on the front door.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Booker says, getting up. “This is going to be gross.”

Andy grips Joe’s shoulder as Booker gets the door.

“You good?” she asks, voice soft. “You know you’re welcome here anytime. Maybe without the vomiting though.”

Joe puts his hand over hers.

“Thanks, boss,” he says, and she smiles at him. Booker’s only halfway through telling Nicky about Joe’s arrival before Nicky's at the living room door, eyes wide.

“ _Dio Santo_ ,” he says, turning to smack Booker on the arm.

“What was that for?” Booker asks, pouting.

“He should be lying down with more than water,” Nicky says, hands on his hips. Andy is trying not to laugh as Nicky glares at her. “Booker, fine, but really, Andromache?”

“I’m fine, Nicky,” Joe says, and world rights itself a little when Nicky drops down next to him and takes Joe’s face in his hands. His hands are gentle, calluses ghosting over Joe’s skin. He feels Andy leave the couch and draw Booker into the kitchen, but he’s too busy re-familiarising himself with the green of Nicky’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” they both say at the same time. Joe laughs, and Nicky’s lips quirk at the edges.

“I’m sorry about your test flight,” Nicky says, and Joe grimaces. “I’m sorry I was so…I know what you mean. I just wanted to keep calm. Or I’m no use to anyone.”

“That’s not true,” Joe says, bringing his own hands up to Nicky’s face. His skin is soft beneath his stubble. “You know that’s not true, Nicolò.”

“It’s true to me,” Nicky says, which Joe doesn’t know how to answer. Instead, he leans in and presses his forehead to Nicky’s. They both close their eyes and exhale together. Joe’s headache recedes slightly, like Nicky’s fingers against his temple are drawing the ache out. He knows they need to talk; that the frustration from earlier will come back if they don’t, uglier each time.

“Nicky…” he says quietly, and Nicky shivers. “I need you tell me what’s going on. For real. You’re telling me things but there’s more, I know there is.”

Nicky sighs, eyes still closed. Joe rubs a hand over his neck and then his shoulder, and Nicky sags against him like a string’s been cut.

“I know,” he says. “There’s just…I don’t know. I don’t know how.”

It’s so honest that Joe has to press a kiss to Nicky’s hair, and Nicky’s hand fists in Joe’s shirt.

“Let’s go home,” Joe says. “And we can figure it out, okay?”

“Okay,” Nicky says, looking up at him. He is still the most beautiful thing Joe has ever seen. “Let’s go home.”

~*~

 _Figuring things out_ gets waylaid by a visit from Joe’s parents. Nicky feels the same pressure each time before they arrive. They’d gotten along well during summer, but that had been a holiday, and not…this. Nicky is sure they can see right through him, and it makes him feel like a fraud when things aren’t going perfectly.

“Take your time,” Joe had said, stopping Nicky in the middle of his deep cleaning. “Talk to me when you can, okay? Just – please. I’m here.”

“I will,” Nicky says, even as his mind spins. “I promise.”

When Mariam and Ibrahim arrive, Nicky tries to make himself sparse. He loves seeing Joe with his parents because they seem to get along so well; not like friends, per se, but as equals, without anyone being cowed by anyone else’s position. But he’s also aware it’s a family thing and doesn’t want to intrude. There’s only so much hiding he can do if the al-Kaysanis are in the open plan lounge, so he goes into the garden despite the November chill, and tries to figure out how he’ll talk to Joe. He’s going in circles one afternoon when he hears the backdoor slide open, and turns to find Ibrahim walking towards him, Nicky’s coat over his arm.

“Thought you looked cold,” he says, and Nicky mumbles his thanks in his still poor Arabic and takes it. Ibrahim stands next to him and surveys the garden. Nicky is immediately self-conscious. Season aside, he isn’t a huge gardener, and their backyard is nothing like the al-Kaysanis’. Ibrahim asks after him and Nicky answers. He hears Joe’s voice saying _there’s more, I know there is_ and feels like he’s lying through his teeth. He gets along with Ibrahim, and knows they would get along better if he could just relax. But him being Joe’s _father_ inherently makes Nicky’s spine snap to attention, and he’s hyper aware of every word he says, every bit of behaviour Ibrahim might not like.

“Have your family been over?” Ibrahim asks, and his voice is calm, like he’s inquiring about the weather. When Nicky looks at him though, his face is warm and open. Nicky feels the trained answer rise on his tongue, but then Ibrahim tilts his head and waits. Nicky sees Joe for a moment, and where he must get his patience from, whenever Nicky struggles with his words.

“They…” he says, and then concedes. “We haven’t spoken in a long time,” he says. “And they won’t after this.”

He feels, more than sees, Ibrahim acknowledge his words and all it implies. Nicky looks down at the grass and focuses on each individual blade he can see. Ibrahim clasps his hands behind his back and says,

“Well, Mariam and I will just have to stand in for them, then.”

Nicky looks at him sharply and then regrets it; the movement jolts him, and he feels his heart jump in his chest. Ibrahim puts a hand on Nicky’s shoulder.

“Nicolò,” he says, and Nicky forces himself to look Ibrahim in the eyes. “I do not pretend to understand what you are going through or how you’re feeling. But allow me to say – Nicolò, you are a good man.”

Nicky does not trust himself to move, or speak, or breathe. He looks into the face of Yusuf’s father, and the quiet confidence he finds there makes him feel young enough to cry. He looks at Ibrahim and asks, fumblingly,

“How do you know?”

It’s a question Nicky hasn’t been able to stop asking himself. The minute he asks it out loud, he wants to claw the words back. He can’t live without an answer, but also doesn’t know if he can live with what the answer may be. Ibrahim smiles, eyes creasing, and says,

“No one who loves my son like you do could be anything but a good man.”

Nicky inhales, almost choking on it, and Ibrahim grips his shoulder like he knows it’s the only thing anchoring Nicky in that moment.

“Nicky,” he says, “we have watched you be in love Yusuf since the beginning. We have seen you care for him and all your close friends, I’ve seen you with my daughters. Are you perfect? No. But you are a good man. Never doubt that.”

Nicky bows his head because he can’t bear it – the tenderness in Ibrahim’s face, the honesty. He wants to say _no, you don’t understand, if you’d done what I did, without control, without remorse…_ But Ibrahim is wiser than Nicky will ever feel, and his words settle in Nicky’s chest, warm and steady. They stay like that as the sun sets quietly behind them, and Nicky closes his eyes against it, just breathing. Ibrahim stays with him until he’s able to go back inside.

~*~

The day after his parents leave, Joe is getting ready for bed when Nicky knocks on their bedroom door and looks in, face uncertain. Joe pulls the t-shirt he sleeps in over his head; he’s pretty sure it’s one of Nicky’s old ones.

“…yes?” he asks, bemused.

“Can I…?” Nicky asks, gesturing, and Joe’s heart clenches when he realises Nicky’s asking if he can sleep in their room. They’d done so when Joe’s parents had been there, but now they’re gone, Nicky must be wondering if they’re returning to October sleeping arrangements.

“Please,” Joe says, and pulls back the covers.

Nicky comes to the bed, but doesn’t lie down. Instead, he sits on its edge and takes a deep breath. Ah. Joe gets into his side and waits.

“I didn’t mean to keep anything from you,” Nicky says, back to Joe. “But I don’t think I even knew what was wrong until recently. Or how to say it, when so much was going on.”

“I can understand that,” Joe says. “What did you figure out?”

There’s a long pause.

“Something’s wrong with me,” Nicky says, flatly. Joe pauses.

“How do you mean?” he asks, cautious.

“I could have _killed someone_ ,” Nicky says, and his words are like his first exhale in two months, rushed and ragged. “Without control, without thought – but I feel like I could have. I was…I was _so angry_ , Joe.” He’s staring down at his hands when he adds, quiet but clear. “I don’t regret it like I should.”

The words settle between them, unretractable. Nicky’s head is bowed, the back of neck bared like he is either praying or waiting for something to strike him. Something shifts between them: an understanding Joe can feel in his bones, clicking into place like a key in a lock. He breathes out, slow and steady, and moves to sit next to Nicky. Nicky hunches over, elbows braced on his knees before continuing.

“So I don’t regret something a normal person would, that a _good person should_. And then, the magic…” A shudder runs through Nicky, and Joe can feel the effort each word takes, heavy in Nicky’s mouth. “I had to say I was in control of it, because I couldn’t say I _wasn’t_. But that’s a lie. It’s a lie that people will find out. Because, after…” Nicky stretches out his hands, fingers straining. “You know when we’re younger, unable yet to control our magic…” he curls his fingers back into fists. “It feels like that, but so much _worse_. And after what I did, I can feel it now. All the time. Like a fever.”

He turns his head slightly, still not looking at Joe.

“I want to peel back my own skin just to get rid of it,” he says, and Joe shivers. “But the more frustrated I get, the worse it is. If I don’t keep it in check, _all the time_ , it feels like I’ll –” his words catch, and his hands shake with how tightly they’re fisted. “I might hurt you,” he says finally. “More than –”

 _More than you already are_ , Joe completes when Nicky cuts himself off. They both inhale at the same time, quick and unsteady.

“I might hurt you,” Nicky repeats. “And I would rather die than risk that.”

From anyone else, it would be melodramatic. From Nicky, it is only the truth. Joe has always loved his honesty.

“Nicolò,” Joe says, and Nicky curls in on himself like Joe’s voice is a blow. “ _Nicolò._ ”

When Nicky still doesn’t turn, Joe stands, before dropping to his knees so Nicky has no choice but to look at him. His eyes are dry and clear, but distant. He’s retreating somewhere, and Joe can’t take much more of it. He puts his hands around Nicky’s face and holds on when Nicky tries to pull away.

“ _Amore mio_ ,” Joe says. “Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?”

Nicky’s eyes dart away from Joe’s face.

“I couldn’t,” he says. “Not when you’re…I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“You want me to stop telling you how I am?” Joe asks, and Nicky’s eyes finally focus on his. “Because I know you’re suffering?”

“No,” Nicky says immediately, and then realises what Joe’s saying. “Yusuf, it’s not the same –”

“Yes it fucking is,” Joe says, and his fingers tighten around Nicky’s face. “Nicky – do you remember what I said to you, before we were together, when you had those nightmares?”

Nicky stares at him, and Joe knows he remembers, but he says it again anyway.

“You’re my best friend, Nicolò. I’m _always_ going to be here to listen to you, okay? Even if it’s about me. Especially if it’s about me.” He leans closer, even as his knees protest. “Nicolò, don’t you know how much I love you?”

Nicky makes a wounded noise in his throat, eyes closing. When he opens them again, they’re shining with tears, but he’s _here_ , he’s really here in front of Joe, and Joe has _missed him_ so much.

“You don’t think I understand?” Joe says, low and fierce. “You don’t think I would have done the same, if it had been you?”

Nicky blinks and the tears fall, right into Joe’s hands. Joe wipes them away, and Nicky’s fingers come up to circle his wrists.

“I don’t know if I’d regret doing it either,” Joe says, hushed between them. “But a bad person wouldn’t be worried about that at all and it’s _killing you_ , Nicky. And we can figure out your magic, no matter what you’ve had to say publicly. We can.”

Nicky takes a shaky breath in.

“I’m scared,” he whispers. Joe has never heard Nicky say those words and never wants to again.

“So am I,” Joe says, and Nicky’s fingers tighten against him. “But I know that I can be scared with you, and get better with you, and face whatever’s next with you. No matter what it is…”

“…as long as it’s with you,” Nicky finishes, and Joe nods. He knows they’re both thinking of when they first kissed; when Nicky had said those words while Joe knelt in front of him, just as he does now. It feels like a millennium ago but as clear as yesterday, both so much younger and already so in love.

Nicky inhales and runs his hands down Joe’s arms. Goose bumps rise under his fingers, but they’re reflexive; not magical, not harmful. Nicky lifts his hands, staring at them for a moment before cradling them around Joe’s face. He is trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was afraid you wouldn’t – anymore, if you knew all this –”

“ _Never_ ,” Joe says. “Nicolò, I will love you to the end of this life and to the end of whatever’s next. And even after then – I will love you.”

Nicky makes a choked noise and finally, _finally_ presses his response against Joe’s lips. There’s such an ache behind how softly Nicky touches him that Joe presses closer, searching. Nicky shudders, and then he’s pulling Joe up, lying back to pull Joe on top of him. They slot back together from one breath to the next, fingers rediscovering the familiar grooves. Joe presses their bodies together, starving for it, and Nicky groans, fingers flexing against Joe’s back.

“Careful, careful,” he says, like it’s a mantra to himself, and Joe kisses down his throat and says,

“This isn’t the same thing.”

“You don’t know that,” Nicky says, even as he arches under Joe. “You don’t –”

“Trust me,” Joe says, pulling back to look at Nicky, focused and sure. “Even if you won’t trust yourself – trust _me_. You will never hurt me. Any part of you – you never would.”

He kisses Nicky then, hard and biting this time, and Nicky pushes up to meet him, just as desperate. Joe feels Nicky’s fingers dig into his back, and there’s a shock to them, a heat that’s perhaps too high – but it doesn’t hurt him. He realises, distantly, that there’s always been a current between them when they do this, ranging from a low hum to sparks across his skin. He’d assumed that was just how he felt about Nicky, so intense and so alive. And it is, it always has been, but it’s more overt now: how the air vibrates as Nicky pulls Joe’s shirt off him and maps out each rib with his lips, how it intensifies when Joe does the same to him.

They don’t do much more than kiss and re-discover each other, each touch a silent _hello_ , _I’m here, I’ve missed you_. Joe has to lie back down after a while, a slight headache at the base of his skull. Nicky gets him water without looking guilty, and kisses him softly after. When he gets back into bed and turns onto his side, Joe curves around him as they’ve done for years now, and Nicky tangles their fingers together.

“Stay with me,” Joe says, and he means _like this, like how we are meant to be_. Nicky raises their joined hands and kisses Joe’s palm, sealing the promise as he replies,

“Always.”

~*~

In December, the ICWQC bends to the EQL and bans Nicky from playing in the World Cup.

There are no words – at least, in English – to adequately capture the public outcry when the rosters are released. The EQL and ICWQC headquarters receive so much hate mail they have to shut down their public channels for a while, and the fierce debate between Nicky’s supporters and critics reignites. In contrast, the Guard’s front office receives so much fan mail that Caitlin comes over just to complain. Nicky apologises as she dumps bagfuls of it on their dining table, but Joe catches him smiling, abashed, as he helps sort through it.

Throughout December, every member of Team Italy and much of the crew come visit Nicky. It causes quite a stir as each one is recognised at the portkey terminal – mainly because they all arrive in Team Italy merch, and all with _GENOVESE_ emblazoned on the back instead of their own surnames. Nicky is quietly elated by each guest, and Joe watches him reclaim his place within something larger than himself; something that adores and reveres him, with people who have known him personally since he was a child.

Joe is gossiping with Caldara’s wife, their two-year-old pulling at his beard when he realises this is his version of meeting Nicky’s extended family; the one that has actually been worthy of that title. The whole team calls him _Capitano_ – even Caldara, who has actually been appointed Captain in Nicky’s place. Joe has always liked Caldara; he’s an extraordinary Beater himself, in the same cohort as Nicky. It would have been easy for him to resent Nicky, but Caldara has always seemed more concerned by how Nicky’s greater success has affected him.

“We owe him, really,” Caldara had told Joe during one of his prior visits. “No one else had to deal with the same attention. He’s the face; he bears that for us.”

Now, Joe watches Nicky and Caldara talk in the garden, gesticulating enough to keep themselves warm. Team Italy come like they’re on a pilgrimage, and Nicky talks to them for hours, prepared with play-by-play reviews and detailed tips.

“Thank God he’s had you,” Elisa says, squeezing Joe’s hand. He looks at her, surprised, and the reflexive response of _no, he’s stuck here because of me_ rises in the back of his throat. She smiles at him, and he swallows the thought back down.

“We’ve been very lucky,” he says instead, because it’s true, despite everything. It still fucking sucks but – it’s true.

When Caldara comes back in, he joins them at the table and places a sizeable parcel in front of Joe.

“A gift,” he says, smiling. “From Italy.”

“Oh, wow,” Joe says, and glances at Nicky, who’s hovering by the kitchen counter. He smiles at Joe and gestures for him to unwrap it. Inside is a beautiful wooden box. _Fazioli_ is engraved in one corner, and Joe runs his fingers over the logo before lifting the lid.

It’s a helmet. But not like any Quidditch helmet Joe has seen before, uncomfortable and uncommon as they are. This one is sleek and narrow, jet black with the Guard’s logo across the sides. It feels too light for how firm it is, which contrasts with the plush inner cushioning.

“It’s a prototype,” Caldara says, leaning forwards. “Started a while ago, actually. But little interest or funding – until now.”

Joe glances at Nicky, who shrugs, trying to look nonchalant.

“It’s specially designed for flying after head injuries like yours,” Caldara says. “With all the regulations around gear standardisation, you almost have to go a little muggle with it. We had some of Italy’s best wizards on this, figuring out how to achieve the most protection without violating the EQL’s rules.” He pulls a face at mentioning the League, and Joe laughs, turning the helmet over in his hands. “But you, more than most, fly like a madman.”

“That’s not a compliment, Joe,” Nicky says at Joe’s expression, and Caldara laughs.

“It kind of is,” he says, and Joe preens. “So this also stabilises your head for flight, which is one of the biggest issues, yes? Post-injury helmets do that now, but the designs are outdated. This one’s state of the art. Healer approved.”

“I…” Joe says wonderingly, still staring. He _is_ flying again, in agonisingly incremental steps, and hated every helmet they’d put on him. This one though – this feels different. “This must’ve taken a lot of work,” he says, looking around at them all.

“Ah, it’s the Genovese effect,” Caldara says, and Nicky rolls his eyes. “It moves mountains in Italy.”

“It must do,” Joe says. He can’t help but feel hopeful, which he tries to tamp down. “I’m still testing my flying –”

“Of course, of course,” Caldara says. “Whenever you’re ready. The team is on standby to tailor it as you improve.”

When they’re gone, Joe wraps his arms around Nicky and peppers his neck with kisses. Nicky laughs and turns to kiss him properly. It still thrills Joe, Nicky turning towards him, warm and open.

“You’ve been sneaking around behind my back, huh?” Joe says, mock-accusatory. “I had no idea.”

“How will you ever forgive me?” Nicky replies, matching his tone before his eyes grow serious. “Do you like it?”

“I can’t wait to try it,” Joe says. “And it looks very cool.”

Nicky smiles, relieved. Joe can feel the lecture brewing in Nicky’s mind, ready to discuss every tiny detail of the design. Joe kisses him again to distract him and says,

“ _Thank you_ , Nicky. You do so much for me I can barely keep up.”

“I’d do anything for you,” Nicky says, and there’s only one appropriate response to _that_. It’s a beautiful afternoon.

~*~

After four volatile months, Joe’s recovery seems to become more linear in January. It coincides nicely with the League going quiet for World’s – they’re able to have the pitch to themselves for hours, and it feels like coming home, despite missing the team. When they first get back in the air together again, they kiss for a long time, and it’s just as glorious as when they’d done it in front of a full stadium.

Under Nicky’s watchful eye, Joe regains his flight legs. Before anything else, he needs to fly again, and he needs to fly like _Joe al-Kaysani_. In this regard, his new gear is a fucking miracle. Nobody _wants_ to wear a helmet, but this one is so tailored to Joe he prefers to have it on. It seals his head in somehow, making him feel steady and balanced while remaining breathable and feather light. By the end of January, Joe’s able to do his signature triple corkscrew again without feeling sick, and Nicky’s laugh rings in his ears as he does a victory lap for an imaginary audience, arms above his head.

Whenever Joe’s on his mandated breaks, Nicky compulsively runs through his manual flight checks. The League had made Chris hand over Nicky’s broom for inspection after The Incident, and while it had made sense, it had felt like gasoline on an open wound. _Fazioli_ had argued bitterly for sending the original broom maker to oversee its stripping down and been summarily denied. Even months later, Nicky is still twitchy about it and recalibrates every chance he gets. Joe’s not complaining; he’s forgotten the thrill of watching Nicky fly, performing basic routines like he’s on a highlight reel. Nicky flies like it’s a dance, calm and focused but fiercely joyful. He breathes easier out on the pitch, and Joe feels as if the world is clicking back into place.

With Nicky beside him, his baby steps back into flight feel less infuriating and more like rediscovery. They get time to show each other old tricks and new techniques, and Joe has never been more grateful for every twist and turn and dive. It’s a throwback to how they’d been, when Nicky had first joined the Guard; constantly crossing the line between banter and flirting, happier than they’d ever hoped to be.

“Last to the hoops cooks dinner!” Nicky shouts, which is a dirty move since he’s already accelerating. Joe curses and pelts after him. Nicky glances back, smile caught in the sun, and Joe thinks _, please. Please just let me have this for a little longer._

~*~

In April, Joe comes home to find Nicky and Ayesha having a blazing row in the kitchen. Well – Ayesha is blazing. Nicky is Nicky. Joe’s been out all afternoon with Nile, indulging in retail therapy. The Guard had missed playoffs this season, and Joe could make a lovely bonfire with all the bullshit op-eds questioning Nile’s leadership. She’ll be leaving for an extended holiday in Chicago soon, which Joe is grateful for. It’s been…quite the season for everybody. She deserves the break.

For him, April holds its own challenges.

“Honestly, he’s barely been cleared,” Ayesha is saying when Joe quietly closes the front door behind him. “I’ve never trusted sports Healers –”

“We’ve had independent Healers involved throughout the entire process, Ayesha,” Nicky says. His voice is placid, but Joe can tell they’ve been talking for a while. Nicky’s no doubt discovering the double-edged sword of having sisters – or as least, being adopted by the al-Kaysani ones. Joe stops in the hallway. He’s been on the receiving end of this conversation too often already; maybe Nicky will have a better response to it.

“It’s still bullshit,” Ayesha says. “Everyone’s just pushing him to make a call so he can start retraining in time for next season. People want him to get back into it like nothing’s happened!”

“I think _he’s_ trying to get back into it like nothing’s happened,” Nicky says. “Except we can’t forget that it _did_ happen. It’s been almost eight months, Ayesha. You know how careful we’ve been with his recovery. You know how painful it’s been. We wouldn’t risk it if we weren’t sure –”

“You can’t be sure about anything with an injury like that,” Ayesha interjects, and Nicky pauses.

“We’ll never be a hundred percent sure, no,” he says. “But within the parameters that we have, it’s as safe a bet as it’s ever going to be. The Healers all agree, and Joe wants to take that bet. You knew he would, if he was cleared.”

“Yes, but I thought _you_ –” Ayesha says, and her voice is harsh. “You shouldn’t let him –”

“I don’t _let_ him do anything,” Nicky says, and for the first time, there’s an edge to his voice. “He decides what he wants, and I support him. No matter what that decision is.”

“No, you just want him to play again,” Ayesha says, and her voice is bitter.

“Of course I do,” Nicky says, blunt. “But more importantly, that’s what _he_ wants. If circumstances change, we can reassess. But right now, it’s a medically sanctioned option.”

There’s a short pause. Joe imagines them squaring off, two of the most competent and contrasting people he knows, both united and conflicting over their love for him. 

“ _Medically sanctioned_ ,” Ayesha repeats slowly, and Joe braces himself at her tone. It’s usually about now that Ayesha makes people cry. But the cutting rebuttal doesn’t come – or at least, not how he expects it.

“Nicky,” she says, and to Joe’s horror, it’s _her_ voice that wavers. “I know you know this. I know you must. But if anything happens again – anything remotely similar…” She takes a sharp breath, mug clinking against the counter. “The chances of death, or unrecoverable injury, are exponential now. Exponential. You understand that, don’t you?”

There’s a long pause. Joe presses his knuckles against his mouth, fidgeting. His spine is cold.

“How could I forget?” Nicky says finally, and Joe’s heart clenches. He gets through that reality through wilful optimism; Nicky does not.

“And you’re willing to live with that?” Ayesha says. Her words are heavy with unspoken implication. “You’ll support him with that too, no matter what?”

“Yes,” Nicky says, without reserve or hesitation. “You know I will, Ayesha.”

“You’re both –” she says, sounding furious again, but there’s no real heat to it. Her emotions are about to crest like a wave before it breaks; Joe knows exactly how that feels. “You’re both _insane_ and _obsessed_ and _so fucking stupid_ , you know that?”

“I know,” Nicky says, and Ayesha laughs like it’s been shocked out of her, wet and choked and exasperated. When Joe finally comes into the kitchen, pretending to look none the wiser, Ayesha is hugging Nicky like she’s trying to smother him, and he’s running a soothing hand down her back.

“Um, hands off,” Joe says, because he’s actually a little teary himself and not at his comedic best.

“Fuck off, you absolute fucking douche canoe,” Ayesha says, not moving, and Nicky smiles at him over her shoulder. Joe puts down his bags and wraps them both in a giant bear hug. It’s a stretch, and Ayesha makes a disgusted noise, but her hand find Joe’s on Nicky’s back and squeezes. There’s not much more they can say.

~*~

“Hey.”

The end of May heralds a hot summer, and Nicky finds Joe stretched out on the grass outside, hands shielding his face. His hair is back to normal now, and Nicky runs a gentle hand over it as he sits down next to him, cross legged on the picnic blanket. Joe smiles at him in reply and catches his hand, pressing a kiss to Nicky’s palm before resting it over his chest. Joe’s heartbeat is slow and steady and strong. It’s always been a calming thing for Nicky, but more so this year than ever. They sit in a silence for a little while, just listening to the trees, before Nicky asks quietly,

“What are you thinking?”

Joe’s eyes remain closed, but he hums in acknowledgement. Nicky waits, tracing the lines of Joe’s face with his eyes. Even now, even after being cooped up in the same house together for months, he never tires of looking at him.

“My reflex tests came back,” Joe says after a while, and Nicky pauses, fingers pressing into Joe’s chest. “Analysed over the last two months or so.”

“Mmhm,” Nicky says, cautious. “They’ve been pretty good, haven’t they?”

“Mm,” Joe says. His face is unnervingly clear; not stressed or angry or sad. Instead, Joe takes a deep, steady breath and says, “The results are good. But they’re not as good as they used to be. They’re not good _enough_.”

“You mean, you’re not continuously breaking your own record?” Nicky says, trying to keep his tone light. “That’s also just an age thing, old man.”

“Oh, is _that_ what I am,” Joe says, slanting his eyes open to smile at Nicky. His tone is carefully light as well. “No, I know. I know it won’t stay the same. But…” he closes his eyes again and breathes out. “It’s worse than it should be. And it’s holding steady now. They don’t think it’ll change much even as I regain the rest of my abilities.”

Nicky knows that they are talking about seconds, milliseconds, of difference here – and how important those tiny moments are for Seekers. He knows that Joe’s test results are still stellar by normal standards. Except – there’s a reason why Joe is so renowned. And Nicky understands that better than anyone.

“Andy –” Nicky says, and Joe nods.

“She knows. And we were always going to be training new Seekers after last season. We got complacent not doing so earlier.” He runs a hand over his beard. “We might just have to speed that process up.”

“You’re still more than fit to play,” Nicky says, and his voice isn’t as steady as he’d like. “As long as…”

“Yes,” Joe says, and his fingers skim over the side of his head; the side they’d cut into, not so long ago, in the grand scheme of things. His chest rises under Nicky’s hand. “Ayesha’s right, you know. Never tell her I said that, but…yeah. She’s right.”

“Joe,” Nicky says, and he puts his free hand around Joe’s face, cradling his jaw. “You know I mean it when I say – whatever you choose –”

“I know,” Joe says. His smile is warm; tinged now with sadness, but it’s bittersweet. “And as much as I want to take my miracles and just push on, push through, no matter what…” He looks at Nicky, and his eyes are shining. “I don’t want to put you through that again. Or worse.”

“I don’t want _you_ to have to go through it,” Nicky says, and his voice is choked now. He feels, deep in his bones, what is coming, even if his conscious mind refuses to acknowledge it.

“Nicolò…” Joe says, reaching for him, and Nicky leans down to meet him. They kiss like they can share the truth that way, without having to say a word. It bookends the moment, the final touch before Joe lays out his plans, and changes the trajectory of their lives.

“ _Ti amo così tanto_ ,” Nicky whispers when they finally part, and Joe smiles at him like he’s hearing it for the first time. There are tears on both their cheeks but it doesn’t matter. They are together. 

~*~

They both pause at the mouth of the tunnel. The pitch stretches out before them, perfectly still and silent, waiting for the infinite possibilities to fill its air. Joe has loved the sight of an open pitch since before he could fly. He tries to memorise it in perfect detail: the smell of the grass, the way the sunlight catches the goal hoops at either end. The way Nicky looks as he turns to Joe, as he’s done a thousand times before.

“One last season,” he says, and his voice is steady. “One last season together.”

Joe nods, unable to speak.

They walk out.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good God, this was a beast to write. It coincided with some really rough times (#2020 amirite), and I still can’t quite believe this update got finished! But as always, we prevailed. I could not have done this without the village that has somehow gathered around this project – thank you for everybody’s infinite patience and active support; all the check-ins, the soundboarding, the transformative works and endless headcanons. I may now have around five sidefics living rent free in my head but that’s besides the point. Thank you. 
> 
> Special shoutout to everyone who contributed to the ungodly amounts of pseudo-legal, medical and socio-cultural debate behind this update. Where possible, everything is based upon or inspired by real life procedures and trends etc. I won’t ever unsee the surgery videos I found for this but has all been really interesting to think about. More than happy to discuss in the comments if you have questions or thoughts. 
> 
> If you’ve made it this far, thank you very much for reading. Mainfic is, somehow, wrapping up? 
> 
> As always, all feedback welcome. Would love to hear how this monster update landed for you ♥


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s a fairytale farewell, but it’s not an end. Instead, it feels like the gentle close of one chapter, in anticipation for the next._
> 
> _Joe can’t wait._

Joe comes home in mid-July to find all their cutlery floating in the air.

“Babe?” he calls, and Nicky’s head pops up from where he’s lying on the couch. He smiles at Joe, one hand curling in, and all the forks and spoons drop gently downwards, sorting themselves back into the open drawer.

“Did they go back right?” he asks, and Joe dutifully traipses over to check.

“Just two spoons in the fork compartment,” he reports, and Nicky groans and lies back down. “That’s not bad at all, _albi_ ,” Joe says, walking over and leaning against the back of the couch. Nicky peers at him through his fingers, and Joe leans down to kiss him, smiling at the hand Nicky runs through his hair. Six months ago, Nicky would never have touched him just after performing wandless magic.

“Is Valentina gone?” Joe asks when they pause for breath. Nicky gives him an incredibly sardonic look.

“Would I still make out with you if she were here?”

Joe laughs, swinging his legs over to sit down. He lands on Nicky’s thighs, and Nicky lets out a small _oof_ before sitting up to wind his arms around Joe, face finding the crook of his neck. Joe smiles against his hair.

“Lesson went well, then?” he asks, and Nicky nods.

“She said my progress was…acceptable,” Nicky says, and Joe groans in mock-outrage. Nicky laughs. “I’ll take _acceptable_ from Valentina,” he says. “That’s like Andy saying we get a break.”

“True that.”

They shift so Joe isn’t crushing Nicky’s legs, still wrapped around each other. “Hey,” Joe says, and Nicky looks up at him, face tired but smiling. “I’m proud of you, you know that?”

“Oh.” Nicky’s cheeks go pink. “I mean, it’s training I should have done ages ago, I just never thought –”

“Nicky,” Joe says, cutting him off. “I know how hard it’s been. And I’m proud of you.”

Nicky looks at him for a long moment, and Joe holds his gaze, one hand smoothing along his jaw.

“Thank you,” Nicky says finally, and kisses him again.

After they had regained their footing with each other in November, Joe had focused on how to address Nicky’s magic. Nicky had been reticent to discuss it even with Andy and Booker, but their input had proved invaluable. Joe and Nicky had then quietly approached Caitlin, who had given them both a hard look and said, “Consider it done.” By that point, she had weathered them through their worst times better than anyone could’ve hoped for – they couldn’t help but trust her.

In January, Valentina Romano starts coming to their house once a week. She is a severe looking woman in her late fifties, she refuses to speak anything except Italian, is a fully licensed psych-witch, and specialises in teaching wandless magic. She must be one of the most heavily NDA’d personnel the Guard has ever hired, but they quickly realise why Caitlin had chosen her. She obviously knows who they are; she also obviously could not care less. She virtually ignores Joe until he’s improved his Italian enough to hold a decent conversation, which Nicky finds hilarious. She is also far more interested in whether Nicky has done his assigned homework than why she’s been hired in the first place. Needless to say, Nicky takes to her like a duck to water. They send Caitlin a sumptuous thank you gift. 

“A lot of it is not about the magic at all,” Nicky says to him in February, surrounded by books and papers on the living room floor. “My level of power is fine.”

“Actually, I think she said your level of power is _above average_ ,” Joe interjects, because he does pick up languages fairly quickly, thank you very much.

“Well, yes,” Nicky says, going pink. “But that’s not a good thing without control; without understanding where it comes from, or what’s driving it. And that’s my main problem. It only came out under…” he pauses, looking away. “Extreme circumstances. The question now is how to tap into it without…that.”

“So we’re paying her to have extended afternoon teas with you?” Joe asks. He’s very motivated to improve his Italian enough to join those sessions. Nicky always makes the most intricate desserts for Valentina, and she never appreciates them like Joe does.

“I’m thinking Caitlin actually hired her for therapy at this rate,” Nicky says, corner of his mouth quirking. “But the theory is sound. It’s a much more emotionally driven form of magic; the scope is broader than wands but requires more intrinsic focus. That’s why it’s better to learn it as a child, and incorporate it as part of one’s development.” Nicky shrugs wryly. “Bit harder when you’re an old man.”

“Wow,” Joe says, moving closer to Nicky on the carpet. “You didn’t seem like an old man last night –”

“ _Yusuf_ ,” Nicky admonishes. Joe can tell he’s trying not to smirk from behind his textbook. “I am _studying_.”

Being able to joke around again is such a win that Joe just kisses Nicky’s shoulder and leans against him while he reads. It’s been a battle to get Nicky to this point, terrified as he is of people discovering his lack of training. But his fear of himself – of himself around Joe – that had to go. And so they had taken the gamble, and Joe watches with baited breath as Nicky settles into his lessons. It’s always good for him to have something to fixate on, and if that can’t be Quidditch, this is a solid alternative.

By May, he is comfortable enough to use little bits of wandless magic around the house. His abilities still fluctuate with his mood and he remains cautious with it around Joe, but the process instils another level of calm that Joe sometimes envies, centring Nicky through the ups and downs that continue to hit them. The lessons make him particularly introspective; Joe hears more about Nicky’s past in these six months than in the last five years combined. He also talks Joe’s ear off about magical theory, which Joe has to admit he doesn’t always follow. Joe’s from a background that had actually established directed forms of magic before the majority of Europe, and he'd only had to adapt to different wand and spell techniques as he learnt. Nicky, of course, is also using the opportunity to improve his wand work, and gets Joe to teach him some Tunisian specialities. It’s a win-win, since Joe has to keep doing spell work drills as part of his neuro-physical recovery.

They add it to their training programme, and it becomes part of their re-established rhythm: focused but enjoyable, teasingly competitive, steadying each other through unsteady progress. They’ve always worked best with joint goals, and slowly but surely, they work their way back to each other again. Joe still has bouts of nausea that choke his throat with fear; Nicky still withdraws whenever his magic plays up. But by June, those moments are shorter and much less frequent, and they are far better at turning towards each other than they ever have been.

By late July, Nicky has to scale back his weekly lessons. With preseason looming, they’ve agreed to fortnightly check-ins, and to keep Valentina on-call as the season progresses. She seems rather annoyed by Quidditch’s precedence over their lessons together, which is a testament to how impressed she actually is by Nicky’s abilities.

“Just think what you could achieve if you continued to focus on this,” she says to Nicky as he makes the teapot pour itself. She clicks her tongue at him, and he relaxes his hand from where it’s tensed, turning with the teapot. “You know my door’s always open for you, Nicolò.”

Nicky smiles at her, flushed with pride, before excusing himself to go plate more macarons. Joe, who has _finally_ been invited to afternoon tea, watches him go before Valentina clears her throat and Joe snaps to attention, prepared for some rapid-fire Italian. Instead, Valentina regards him with her dark eyes and says, “Do you know what underlies Nicolò’s wandless magic now, Yusuf?”

“Um…” Joe says, thinking frantically over all of Nicky’s theoretical lectures. “Something fundamental, grounding and emotive? A touchstone, until the magic feels natural without conscious activation.” He peers at her impassive expression, wondering if his Italian is worse than Nicky tells him it is. “Is that right?”

Valentina laughs.

“Yes,” she says, setting her teacup down. “And do you know what that is, for him?”

Joe shakes his head. For the first time, Valentina’s face softens, lines lightening around her mouth.

“It’s your love for each other,” she says, and Joe feels his face do something very embarrassing. “Not a touchstone I would recommend, but it seems to work very well for him.”

“Oh,” Joe says faintly, because he isn’t sure how to express everything he’s feeling in that moment, and certainly not in Italian. He raises his teacup in the extended silence, and Valentina waits until his mouth is full before casually asking,

“So, when are you going to put a ring on that boy?”

Joe chokes, almost spluttering tea all over the food, and is dabbing at his mouth when Nicky reappears, looking concerned. Valentina folds her hands in her lap in complete innocence. While Nicky is shuffling the plates around, however, Joe looks across at Valentina and smiles. She winks back. It’s not a bad end to July.

~*~

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Booker looks around from where he’s decorating fresh cupcakes and raises an eyebrow. Nile shakes another paper at him from the pile. GENOVESE AND AL-KAYSANI: RETURN OF THE KINGS? is emblazoned across the top.

“These titles aren’t even imaginative anymore,” she says, slapping it down on the kitchen counter and spreading it flat. “And it’s just more bullshit speculation on how much Nicky’s skills have degraded during his suspension and if Joe’s retiring. Surely you can only sell the same thing so many times.”

“Apparently not,” Booker says, returning to his buttercream. Nile sighs as heavily as she can and Booker laughs. Annoyingly, his piping remains pristine, forming perfect pink spirals that he adds tiny candied hearts to by hand. Her own attempts sit lopsidedly on the counter between them, icing slipping off uneven cupcake bases. Whatever, they still taste good. Besides, it’s calming to watch someone else bake, and Booker always does it the muggle way with her, which she loves. She’d had a wonderfully long, wonderfully muggle summer at home, but it had only been a long summer because the Guard had failed to make playoffs. Under _her_ Captaincy… Nile flattens out another paper and glares down at it. Her own name jumps out at her, and she immediately folds the paper back up. She can critique herself just fine on her own, thank you very much.

They are technically in Andy’s kitchen, although Booker has likely spent more time in it than Andy ever has. He had crashed in her guest room when he’d accepted the analyst role last season – ostensibly before finding his own place again – and just…never left. Andy threatens to evict him whenever they annoy each other; he threatens to stop cooking for her. Nile loves it. Being able to visit them both in one home reminds her of her early days with the Guard, watching two sporting legends devolve into teenage-level humour and squabbling. Joe and Nicky seem to agree, and are often found here too: Joe and Booker acting like frat bros, Booker and Nicky holding serious conversations over meal prep. When it’s all three of them, Nile watches the hilarity of them getting in each other’s way until Andy comes home and grumbles at them all to behave. Her and Andy have spent many an evening relaxing in the lounge while absolute chaos reigns in the kitchen, with Booker calling, “Throw it to me, it’ll be fine –” as Nicky says, “Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Yusuf, I –” before Joe yells “Incoming!” and something explodes. It’s a great time.

However, the golden glow of summer dims as preseason approaches, and reality settles back in like an early chill. Nile feels like she’s preparing for war. The press fervour certainly makes it feel like it, and she’s still burnt out from the scrutiny of last season. She can’t imagine how it must be for Joe and Nicky; at the epicentre of it yet again.

She’s about to start ranting about another article when Booker’s hands appear and slide the paper away, replacing it with a fresh cup of tea. When Nile looks up, his expression is too knowing, and she makes a face but gratefully accepts the mug.

“I just…” she starts, and then sighs. “They can say whatever they want about me, you know? I’m the Captain. That’s the job. But when they start picking apart the team…” She gestures at the stack of papers. “I mean, you saw how they went after Chris last season. _Completely_ unfair, like they expected him to be at Nicky’s peak, when it was only his third season in the League, being shoved into first position too early, being grilled about Joe and Nicky more than anyone else…” She takes a deep breath, fingers clenching around her mug handle.

She had lost count of how many times she’d find Chris sitting alone in the locker room, a spitting image of Nicky, not undressing until he’d thought over every mistake. She had sat with him after bad matches until tears leaked from his eyes and he’d put his head between his knees to breathe, pressure suffocating them both. Sometimes she would find Caitlin sitting with him after rough press scrums, even though she’d long since been promoted past managing them. They would share a grimace over Chris’ bowed head, and Nile would thank God that she, at least, could look sweaty and dishevelled on camera. Even after all-nighters, Nile has never seen Caitlin with a hair out of place. 

Chris and Caitlin had really dragged each other through the last season, both with their unique ties to Joe and Nicky. Caitlin had faced a similarly harsh jump in responsibility, with Aida on maternity leave and her own personal campaign to look after the boys. Nile remembers a conversation she’d had with Nicky after he’d first been traded; about the closeness of the team and crew, and the dangers of that. She’d felt what he’d meant, last season, with everyone shaken and devastated. But she also doesn’t know how they would have pulled through without being as close as they are. She continues to flat with June and Olivia, and she doesn’t want to imagine life without them: holding each other when Nicky’s suspension had been announced, too angry to cry; the ceremonial burning of op-eds opining on Nile’s Captaincy; team dinners that invariably end with all of them napping together in the living room. And now – with Joe and Nicky back in the fray – the team is itching for something that feels like retribution. 

“Nile,” Booker says, bringing her back into the present. He’s plated a picture-perfect cupcake in front of her, along with overly tiny cutlery. “Have this before Andy gets back. And I know – I know it’s been shit. But it’s a new season and you want to enter it fresh, even if the press remains the same. And yes, while the team is your responsibility, you also have to look after yourself, just as much as you might look after Chris or any of the others.”

“It’s worse when it’s happening to them,” Nile mutters, stabbing at the cupcake with her tiny fork. “It’s worse to watch it happen and not be able to fix it. I just want to fix it.”

“And that’s why you’re the Captain,” Booker says, and she squirms at the pride in his voice. “And also why Andy and I are here to keep you in check.”

“What am I here for?” Andy says, coming through the front door. She stomps into the kitchen and immediately spots Nile’s cupcake; Nile stabs at her with her fork but Andy dodges, snagging and stuffing the cupcake into her mouth before Booker can stop her.

“Mm,” she says, cheeks full. “Gimme the rest, Book.”

“I was _saying_ ,” Booker says, folding his arms, “that we’re here to make sure Nile isn’t overrun by press bullshit and team pressure again, boss.”

“Oh, right,” Andy says, licking her fingers clean. “Yeah, fuck them. Fuck anybody who had a go at us last year. Let’s see how any of them would’ve dealt with a near-death brain injury, huh? I’m happy to provide the injury.”

“Okay,” Booker says as Nile laughs, still a little scandalised. “Forget about Andy, _I’ll_ be here, Nile. We’ll be okay. The team will be fine again.”

“Oh, we’ll be better than that,” Andy says. She locks eyes with Nile, who nods. “We’ll be fucking _champions_ again.”

~*~

In September, Joe is welcomed back to Quidditch with a full, six-minute standing ovation. The stadium is already on its feet for Nicky, who had flown out just before him, as he always does. His reception had also been rapturous, albeit with a tad more heckling. Joe knows Nicky doesn’t care either way; catches his grin as he loops around Joe, gesturing for him to stay in the air while Nicky dips down to the ground. Joe sits still for a moment, looking down at all the upturned faces, before starting a slow loop around the stands. The entire crowd is whooping and hollering and chanting his name, regardless of team allegiance, and it’s so loud he can feel it in his bones, blood singing with it. The air thrums like an engine revving, spiking as Joe waves and smiles and blows kisses like he always does.

Except this time, of course, is different. This time, he can see people crying; can see the banners with _THANK YOU, AL-K#99_ on them, and his vision blurs a little as he spots his family, waving at him from the team’s box. He stops in front of them, as close as the spectator shields will allow, and gives them a jaunty salute. Ayesha rolls her eyes; she’d probably just cut off a work call moments ago. Amira salutes back. Zahra is crying openly, which squeezes Joe’s heart like nothing else. His parents are holding each other, pride in every line of their faces. How many times had they stood like this, watching him play in tiny Little League pitches all the way to the largest stadiums in the world? His mother smiles at him and mouths _go on now_. He looks at them all for a moment longer, hand over his chest, before turning to re-join his team.

It is the last opening game of his career. He’s allowed a moment.

Not that that’s confirmed to anyone except a precious few. Nicky, his family, Andy, Booker and Nile. They’d also told the kids. Chris and Caitlin had stared at him with twin looks of horror until Caitlin’s grip on Chris’ hand had made him squeak and almost drop his fork.

“I assume you want front office to not confirm for now?” Caitlin had said after Joe reassured them of one last season and Nicky had refilled Caitlin’s wine glass.

“Yes please,” Joe said, because just saying the words made him nauseous. “Just until – well. Until the timing’s right.”

“Of course.”

“And the team?” Chris had asked. His head was in one hand, voice unsteady.

“I think they’ll pretty much know,” Joe had replied, sighing. “But…I’ll tell them, Chris. Soon enough. We’ll just keep it unconfirmed going into the season.” Announcing his retirement early _would_ only make things worse. Every moment would be scrutinised as his last; the reporting unbearable. But not confirming it would also mean an endless circus of the same speculation, while everyone believes it anyway.

It doesn’t feel real until Joe goes to dress for that opening game, just before the ovation and the cheering and the tears that await him. He has to stop halfway when he realises – this is one of the last times he’ll do this. This is one of the last times he’ll check his pads; one of the last times he’ll bitch about his boot laces; one of the last times he’ll feel the team all around him, eager and excited for yet another season.

He can hear Nicky in the background, chatting with Chris; Moran joking around with their new backup Keeper; June and Olivia singing along to Nile’s pre-practice playlist. Joe rests his hand on the overhead locker and runs his eyes over the jersey that hangs underneath. He is still staring when Nile appears next to him.

“Worried you won’t fit after a season off, old man?” she asks, and Joe laughs, picking up the jersey and pulling it on. It fits perfectly, as it always has. Nile slides his arm guards on for him, tightening the straps with deft fingers. He looks at her, head bowed over his arm, and feels such a rush of affection that he can’t speak. He’s watched her grow from a rookie to a Captain: always courageous despite her fears, self-assured despite her doubts, steady as a rock even when the team shakes around her. He remembers them drinking hot chocolate together during her second season; stressed, homesick and missing Booker. He and Nile are alike in many ways. She’s only a year older than Zahra. Joe has always thought there’s always room for another sister.

“Okay,” Nile says, finishing the other arm. When she looks up, her gaze is clear and strong. “Chin up, now.”

Joe smiles – it’s something he had often said to her in her first season, when she’d still had the rookie habit of looking down at the ground as she flew. She smiles back, hand on his arm.

“You’re still in the game with us,” she says, only loud enough for him to hear. “And you always will be. You got that?”

“Aye aye, Captain,” he says, and she smacks his shoulder, hard enough to feel like Andy.

“Alright, team,” she calls, and the locker room snaps to attention. “Let’s go get it!”

~*~

As they settle back into the regular season, Joe comes to realise there are things he won’t miss about playing. The never-ending grind of working out, the early mornings, the goddamn nutrition plan. He’ll be thirty-four by the time the season ends, and he keeps reminding himself that that’s not an uncommon age to retire. Quidditch is a rough fucking sport, and past thirty, their bodies’ ability to bounce back from injuries starts to slow. Magic heals fast – especially pitch-side medicine – but it does come at a cost. Celeste sometimes calls magical healing _unnatural_ ; too fast for the body to register what’s happened. Every player understands this, even if it’s not well-acknowledged – sometimes experiencing past injuries like they’re fresh, even when nothing is physically wrong anymore. It makes it worse, because there’s no _proof_ – only aches and pains no potion can quite alleviate.

“We could be doing better research on this at _any time_ ,” Celeste has always griped. “It’s the same with head injuries – we all know it! But there’s no real systemic support.”

That had been before Joe had almost died. His accident hadn’t solved things overnight, but public support for research and updated regulation rises exponentially, spiking again as he returns. Joe never flies without his helmet now, and in solidarity with him and the Guard’s official stance on gear change, the rest of the team dons them too. _Fazioli_ tailors helmets for all of them, and there’s a mad rush as other major gear-makers realise _Fazioli_ has a roaring head start in a burgeoning market.

“So you _did_ have an evil plan,” Joe says one morning over breakfast. “I was just an excuse for you to give _Faz_ a monopoly over new gear!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nicky says, nudging more eggs towards Joe’s plate. He pauses. “I am about to sign the updated contract with them, though. Meeting’s on Friday.”

“Ooh, the extended one?” Joe asks, and Nicky nods. “How much did you agree on in the end?”

When Nicky tells him the attached figure, Joe has to put his fork down and sit back.

“It’s probably less than all of your sponsorships added up,” Nicky says, shrugging. “ _Faz_ is pretty much the only one I’ve kept.”

“Oh my God,” Joe says, putting a hand to his forehead. “Why am I even returning this season? I can just retire now and be your trophy husband for the rest of my life.”

“You’d make a terrible trophy husband,” Nicky says, and Joe gasps.

“How _dare_ you?” he says, and Nicky hides his smile behind the morning paper. “I would make a _phenomenal_ –”

“Well,” Nicky says, turning a page, “you’d actually have to be my husband first.”

Joe’s mouth clicks shut at that, and Nicky takes a calm sip of his protein shake.

“Okay,” Joe says, and Nicky raises his eyebrows a little, still pretending to read the paper. “We are shelving this conversation for _later_ , when we don’t have to be at the clinic immediately and _not_ off the back of a trophy husband joke.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Nicky says, and Joe resists the urge to chuck toast at him. And then kiss him senseless. Both equally strong urges.

After a year of constant medical visits, they’re both old hat at them now. Nicky sometimes has more appointments than Joe; he’s become a vocal advocate for players participating in medical research, and is steadfastly leading that charge. The latent impact of his old injuries is increasing, and he focuses in on that, with seemingly infinite patience for repeated testing and endless questions. Joe…not so much. He drags his feet as they exit the elevator, and Nicky kisses him on the cheek before heading towards the physio department.

“Bye,” Joe says forlornly, and Nicky turns and smiles, giving him a ridiculous little wave. Joe waves back. Just over a year ago, he’d almost died at this hospital. Today, he’s playing Quidditch again and getting teased over breakfast by the love of his life.

It could be worse.

\--

Andy is waiting for him when Joe finally escapes the Healers. Nicky will be long done by now; he’ll have left for the gym already.

“If I’d known surviving meant a lifetime of lab ratting,” Joe says, “you should’ve let me die.”

Andy rolls her eyes.

“My bad,” she says, sarcastic, but she knocks her shoulder against his as they start walking towards the elevator. “Anything new?”

“Not really,” Joe says. “Just takes longer because of the additional muggle testing. And specific ones for projects, too – I’m the subject of so many medical papers by now I should start charging, seriously.” They fall silent between the elevators and reception as people mill around them, but then they exit onto the street and Andy directs them towards one of her favourite bakeries. Joe grins. Andy may tell him to suck it up and take his meds, but she also lets him rant after tests and get away with extra dessert.

“Celeste is trying to make me appear at the European Healers’ Conference in October,” Joe says once they’ve ordered.

“That’ll be a different crowd to your usual,” Andy replies, leaning back in her chair. She regards him for a long moment before saying, “We haven’t really talked about your retirement yet.”

Joe takes a long sip of water.

“It _is_ a season away, I guess,” he says, going for light and landing on pensive. Andy shrugs.

“Anything can happen in a season,” she says, and Joe snorts.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he says, and they clink glasses.

“Just…” Andy starts, and Joe eyes her cautiously. There are lines around her mouth that run deeper than he remembers. “I’ve said this before but – I’m sorry.”

Joe nods. “I know, boss.”

“Any projections on whether magic would’ve worked better?”

Joe shakes his head, trying to head her off.

“Nothing conclusive,” he says. “You know it’s all hypothetical, and what magic _could’ve_ resulted in…” He sighs. Logic doesn’t make things easier to say. “You had good reason, Andy. You had minutes, seconds – and what’s done is done. You saved my life. I get Quidditch back, even just for another season, and I get a proper goodbye.” _You ensured I could still be with Nicky_ , he doesn’t say, because Andy looks haunted enough as it is.

“You sound like Nicky,” she says, rolling her eyes, and Joe shrugs.

“Guess he’s finally rubbing off on me,” he says, and Andy smiles at the throwback to an old joke she’d made, sometimes before he and Nicky had managed to get their act together. “I mean – of course we should’ve known about it, if it was operational; I would’ve preferred for Nicky to at least have been…involved in that decision, but…” He raises his hands, encompassing everything that had occurred in the minutes after his hit.

“Yeah.” Andy looks away. “Of course, Joe.”

Their food arrives, and Joe lets Andy savour her pastry in peace before saying, “Listen, Andy…”

“Mm?”

“I know there’s been a lot of renewed interest in…Quynh’s case. After me.”

Andy sighs, wiping her fingers with a napkin.

“I know, Joe. There’s always renewed interest every so often. It’ll die out again after a while.”

“Maybe not this time,” Joe says, and Andy squints at him like it pains her to focus. “There’s some interesting stuff they’re finding off my brain scans from –”

“Joe.” Andy’s voice cuts through his sentence like an axe hitting an anvil. “It’s unlikely your case will help Quynh’s. I understand the renewed interest but – it’s unlikely.”

Joe looks at her and thinks _what would I be like if I were her, and Nicky was Quynh?_ He thinks of Booker, plummeting past rock bottom with grief. He thinks of Nicky, plagued by nightmares so bad he would stumble from their bed to throw up in the bathroom, even after they’d started mending themselves back together again. And yet somehow, they are the lucky ones. To love as they do – Joe would not trade it for the world, and not even for Quidditch.

“I’ll do everything I can,” he says, putting a hand over Andy’s until she looks at him. “Whatever tests, whatever research – I’ll do whatever they need. Any bit might help.”

For a horrible moment, he thinks Andy might stand and leave. Instead, she turns her hand over to grip at his, and says, “Thank you,” on a long exhale.

They order another round of pastries. Maybe retirement will be worth it for the pastries.

~*~

Joe and Nicky had been in constant touch with the team last season, but they hadn’t been _with them_ , in the air and in the trenches; question after question and loss after loss. It’s intensified the camaraderie between the team, and it’s a relief to slot back into that, familiar and all-encompassing. But things have changed, too. All the younger players look older than they should, a hardened edge to them that Joe doesn’t remember developing in him until later. Chris keeps directing Beaters’ drills before remembering Nicky is back, and everyone revolves around Nile, who shoulders it all, unwavering. Joe is so proud of them it hurts, but it also hurts because they shouldn’t have had to grow up so fast.

The team is now also hyperaware around him, to an extent that might be comedic if it wasn’t horribly understandable and a little annoying. During a game in November, the inevitable happens and he’s hit again – just a bludger to the knee, which is only a bitch because it’s already his bad knee. He lands on the pitch one-legged, grimacing, and finds the team converging on him, Nile calling for time-out, Nicky looking ashen.

“It’s fine,” Joe grits out as Celeste pushes through, _tsk_ ing at him. “Just the knee, nothing to see here.”

Chris comes running up, eyes wide.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and Joe resists the urge to groan as Celeste resets his knee. Chris has Nicky’s bad habit of blaming himself for everything. “Tsai blocked me directly after he shot at you, like a fucking _arsehole –_ ” 

“You’re on camera,” Joe reminds him, and Chris looks around. Of course, the stadium projection is zoomed in on them, even as the team blocks Joe from view. Tsai, the offending Beater, is standing close by, waiting for the verdict. Chris glares at him, and Tsai calls something out, over the noise of the crowd. It’s not in English, but evidently _is_ in Mandarin, because a second later Chris is yelling back. Joe has never seen their rookie’s face look so murderous – though of course, he’s no longer a rookie, but a fully-fledged League player, yelling obscenities on live broadcast. Tsai makes the universal gesture for _come at me, bro_ , and Nicky wraps a hasty arm around Chris’ chest, digging his boots in as Chris lunges forward.

In any other season, it might have been laughed off after some ribbing. In their current climate, however, Chris’ name begins trending immediately, and they spend the next week ignoring articles questioning whether Chris’ behaviour was due to being Nicky’s protégé.

“I’m sorry for bringing shit up for you again,” Chris says, lying across the kitchen counter like he’s living with them again. Nicky squeezes his arm.

“Press was always going to be horrible this season,” he says. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about me.”

“Yeah, pretty sure we’re supposed to be the ones worrying about you, kid,” Joe says, and Chris just sighs and takes a despondent sip of his tea. Before Joe can start in on his pep talk, the doorbell rings, and Nicky checks the time. “Oh, Caldara’s early,” he says, standing up. “You’ve met before, right, Chris?”

“Oh, kind of,” Chris says, who still gets nervous around veteran Beaters he admires. He sits up hurriedly and smooths his hair as Nicky goes to answer the door. Joe laughs.

“Relax, he’s like Nicky’s brother,” he says, and Chris looks at him suspiciously. “He pretends to come over to talk about my _Faz_ helmet, but it’s really just an excuse to gossip about Nicky.”

“Oh hello, Nicky 2.0,” Caldara says when he enters the kitchen. “Though honestly, you’re much better than Nicky was at your age.”

“Um, statistically, that’s not true,” Chris says, and Caldara laughs, stealing Nicky’s recently vacated chair.

“I meant like, as a general human being,” he says, and ducks the dish towel Nicky flicks at him. “So don’t let this press bullshit get you down, alright?”

“We were just saying that,” Nicky says, and Joe nods. “Get your own rookie, Calda.”

“Any rookie of yours is a rookie of mine, Nico,” Caldara says, before turning back to Chris with a conspiratorial smile. “Now, what story about Nico’s failed fights at school will cheer you up the most?”

~*~

“Listen, Joe,” Booker says in January, and then kicks at Joe’s leg when Joe doesn’t look up. “ _Listen_.”

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Joe says, eyes still glued to the sketchbook in front of him. He’d been showing Booker some new designs for his athleisure collection when he’d been struck by inspiration. He’s also mature enough to admit he’s trying to avoid their conversation. Booker puts his hands around Joe’s sketchbook and tugs; Joe yelps as his pencil veers across the page, and then smacks Booker with the sketchbook in retaliation.

“Oi!” Booker says, but he doesn’t start a wrestling match, which can only mean that he’s actually being serious. Joe sighs and sets down his sketchbook, leaning back against his corner of the couch to make an aggrieved noise. Booker huffs out a laugh. “I’m not saying you can’t do everything you want to,” he says, and Joe makes a louder noise. “I’m just _saying_ ,” Booker says over him, “you don’t have to commit yourself to a million things _directly_ after you retire. Trust me, the end of play will hit you like a tonne of bricks, and then you’ll regret overcommitting yourself now.”

“I don’t want to waste my opportunities, is all,” Joe says, sighing. “Like – I’m lucky to have so many things to turn to, and some of the things being offered, I mean…” He gestures, expansive and incredulous. “I don’t want to waste that.”

“Of course,” Booker says. “But they’ll still be there even after you take a break.”

“Will they, though?” Joe asks. “I feel like if I take a break, I’ll come back and all those opportunities will be gone, you know?”

“Joe,” Booker says, and then shakes his head. “Remember how much time I took off after rehab? If I can come back from that, you’ll be just fine.”

Joe shoots him a quick look, but Booker’s face is sincere, and only a little self-deprecating. He shrugs when he catches Joe’s look.

“Just being honest.”

“Ugh,” Joe says. “You sound like Nicky.”

“Well, that boy can be smart sometimes.” Book shrugs again. “What does he think you should do?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Joe says, “but Nicky isn’t exactly an expert on things outside of Quidditch.”

Booker laughs. “Touché. Or an expert at breaks or moderation. Forget I asked. Tell me what’s locked in right now.”

“Well…” Joe says, reaching for his planner. He can’t quite believe he has a _planner_ now, but he supposes the joint influences of Nicky and Caitlin are too strong to resist. “My sponsorships are set. I’m going to start expanding on all my different fashion projects, which is great.” He shoots Booker a grin. “Got lots of broadcasting and hosting offers. But I don’t want to be a sell-out.”

“Of course not,” Booker says drily. “Bet you’ll do a tonne of appearances, though.”

“Maybe,” Joe says, and then fiddles with the pages. “I’m…I’ve been prepping for a memoir, too.”

“Classic,” Booker says. “Now that one, they’ll put a deadline on. You okay with that?”

“Considering I had contract offers straight after my accident,” Joe says, “I’m rather ahead on that.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Booker says, and they share a grimace. “Really covering their bases, huh?”

“Wanting to capitalise in case I didn’t return,” Joe says darkly. “But – it did get me thinking. And I’ve gone with the publisher Ferreira vouched for, who only approached me this season.”

“Nice,” Booker says. “How’s the writing going, then? You’ve always been good at that.”

“Thanks,” Joe says, feeling uncharacteristically shy. “I mean, I’ve always loved to do it, and my management has all my records and whatnot. It’s been fun going through my old journals. Little less fun going through everything I wrote last season but…” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Cathartic, I think.”

Booker squeezes his ankle from where Joe’s legs are up on the couch, and Joe pokes at him with his foot.

“What about you? Still happy being on the dark side? The camera really loves you, huh?”

Booker makes a face. “I’d like to head that off before they make me a host,” he says. “Someone’s suggested podcasting, actually. Then I can move away from broadcast but still do interviews, maybe, and have space for actual deep dives. I’m just not sure about jumping into it solo. But you always said I had a face for radio, didn’t you?”

“It’s true,” Joe says, and then pauses. They look at each other for a long moment.

“Bro,” Booker says. Joe can almost feel the lightbulb lighting up in between them.

“Bro,” he says back, and grins. Booker’s right. They’ll be fine.

~*~

“Ayesha, we’re preparing for playoffs, I’m about to sleep –” Joe is saying as Nicky comes into their bedroom in March, yawning. His sisters have caught him with a late castcomm call, their images floating out of Joe’s device. Amira waves at Nicky from her flat in Belgium, head propped against a stack of books; there’s sunlight behind Zahra, who Joe thinks is in Australia by now but can’t quite keep up; and Ayesha is in her office in Paris, looking pissed.

“I’m an hour ahead of you, Yusuf, and I’m also a _goddamn lawyer_ ,” she says. “I have to go back to work after this while you fuck off to bed, and continue doing my _actual_ job that’s not just going _zoom zoom_ on a broom – no offence, Nicky.” Nicky laughs, sitting down on the bed next to Joe, and Ayesha grins at him. “Very impressive performance yesterday, by the way. Really shows the idiots who thought your HPT wouldn’t go back up again. I’m doing really well in the office betting pool.”

“Thanks, Ayesha,” Nicky says as Joe squawks.

“I _did_ catch the snitch yesterday, guys,” he says, crossing his arms. “No compliments for your own brother?”

“Well, Nicky’s basically our brother,” Ayesha says, shrugging. “And a much better one at that, I might add. Fantastic present organisation.”

“Oh, is this about your parents’ wedding anniversary?” Nicky asks, and everyone nods. “What’s left to organise? We’ve got two weeks.”

“ _Everything_ ,” Ayesha says darkly, but Amira shakes her head and says,

“It should be much easier than other years; mama insists on it being a small party this time.”

“ _Actually_ small,” Nicky asks, eyebrows raising, “or _al_ - _Kaysani_ small?”

They all laugh, but Amira glances at the others when she says, “No, don’t worry Nicky, _actually_ small. After – um – last year, they’re keen to keep it lowkey. Literally just us, I think. It’ll be really nice.”

Nicky exhales, and Joe feels his shoulders draw in, hands twisting in his lap. Joe reaches out and squeezes his knee.

“Listen,” Nicky says, looking down, “if it’s easier for me not to come, that’s totally –”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zahra says sharply, making Nicky look up at her. “It’s not like that, Nicky. They’re just tired of gossip and having to host ridiculous parties every time the Little Prince comes home. They just want a break.”

“I’ll graciously ignore the Prince comment only because she’s right, Nicky,” Joe says, pressing a kiss to Nicky’s shoulder. “We could all use something quiet.”

Nicky looks at them all for a long moment before nodding.

“In that case, what’s left to organise – food?”

“I don’t trust any of our cooking to be good enough,” Ayesha says, “and I want mama to have something really nice that she didn’t have to prepare. But she won’t be keen on catering, and we don’t want to go out to a restaurant.”

“Are we allowed to buy the cake, at least?” Zahra asks, fingers tapping her chin. “Do they even want cake?”

“We have to have cake,” Joe says, to which Ayesha replies derisively,

“No, you just want an excuse for a cheat meal.”

“Well _you_ try being on this goddamn nutrition plan –” Joe starts as Zahra cackles.

“Um…” Nicky says, and they all fall quiet, turning to him. He scratches the back of his neck, face going pink. “I could…cook?”

The al-Kaysani siblings all look at each other.

“I mean –” Nicky says hurriedly in the momentary silence, “I don’t mean to suggest my cooking is good enough, but –”

“Shut up, Nicky,” Ayesha says absentmindedly as she stares out of frame, nodding slowly. “Your cooking is absolutely good enough, holy shit.”

“Would you be okay with that?” Amira asks, leaning forwards. “I’m sure we can help, but you’d have to direct, and it’s a busy time for you…”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Nicky says. Joe can see him already planning out the courses. “Especially if it’s just seven of us.”

“Mama will have a fit if it looks like Nicky’s doing all the work,” Zahra says, and Nicky waves a hand.

“It’s fine, I’ll make something we can all sort of help with –”

“That means pretending to help but just causing minimal damage,” Joe interjects, and Nicky elbows him, smiling.

“– and some dishes we’ve been discussing so she can give me pointers without actually doing it herself,” Nicky finishes. “How does that sound?”

“Oh my God,” Zahra says, sounding awed. “You’re never getting best brother status ever again, Joe.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Joe says, throwing up his hands. “Just because I don’t message mama about recipes every evening –”

“Just because you can’t cook for shit, more like,” Ayesha says, and flips Joe off at the same time he does it to her. “Nicky, if you could, that would be amazing. But only if you’re sure.”

“I’d love to,” Nicky says, and Ayesha claps her hands together.

“Phenomenal,” she says. “Honestly, Nicky, if you don’t feel like bringing Joe along, that’s fine. Can’t wait to see you.”

They all say goodnight with a laugh, and Nicky stands up to get ready for bed.

“Hey,” Joe says, pulling him back down. “Are you really okay with –”

“Yes, Joe,” Nicky says, smiling as he kisses Joe’s forehead. “I like cooking, you know that.”

“I also know you’re obsessed with being useful,” Joe says, and Nicky shrugs.

“Sure,” he says. “But it’s different with your family.”

Joe breaks into a wide smile, and he can’t bring it down even as Nicky gives him a bemused look and untangles himself again. He’s brushing his teeth when he leans against the doorframe of their en suite and asks,

“So how long have your parents been married for?”

“Hm…” Joe says, fluffing their pillows. “It’ll be their…thirty-sixth wedding anniversary this year.”

Nicky’s eyes go very wide, and he disappears for a moment to rinse out his mouth. When he comes back, his expression is still shocked.

“Wow,” he says, and Joe looks at him questioningly. “I just – that’s a long time.”

“Kind of, I guess,” Joe says. Maybe thirty-six years is a long time, and yet it’s so difficult to imagine his parents _not_ being together until they’re old and grey that it feels rather short. His father always says, “I feel like I married your mother just last week,” and Joe thinks he understands that now. He’ll be very happy if he’s as healthy as his father at fifty-nine, so full of life and love and with so much left to do.

“They’re still so…” Nicky says, and Joe waits as Nicky’s face cycles through several emotions. “They’re lovely together,” he ends up saying, and there’s such an unspoken weight behind his words that Joe holds out his arms and Nicky climbs into bed, curling against his chest as they lie down. The end of the regular season is always a grind; they’re both yawning before Joe remembers his response.

“My parents are still babies to our older relatives,” he says, smiling. “Thirty-six is nothing, they’ll say. Mama’s parents will have their sixty-something anniversary soon.”

“Mm,” Nicky says, one hand resting over Joe’s chest. “But it only matters if they’re…happy.”

“My parents?” Joe muses, looking up at the ceiling. “I mean – nobody’s perfect. They’ve certainly had their ups and downs. Having three daughters doesn’t help. I, obviously, was only ever a blessing –” Nicky pokes him for that, and Joe laughs. “But yes,” he says, pulling Nicky tighter against him. “They’re very happy, and they’re very lucky.”

“Do you think…?” Nicky says, but his voice drops off, heavy with fatigue.

“What do I think, Nicolò?” Joe asks softly, feeling unbearably fond.

“’m very happy,” Nicky mumbles. “’n I feel…very lucky.” He exhales, breathing evening out, and Joe thinks of their most horrible nights: arguments and nightmares and lying apart, unable to fall asleep. Maybe those will happen again, at some point in the future. But then this will happen again too: fighting their way back to each other, until they are so close that he can’t tell which is his heartbeat and which is Nicky’s.

“Me too, Nicky,” he says, smiling in the darkness. “Me too.”

~*~

The anniversary dinner is, by al-Kaysani standards, a sweeping success. Zahra accidentally sets Nicky’s sleeve on fire and bans herself from helping. Joe keeps eating all the ingredients he’s meant to be prepping. Amira is the only decent sous chef, with Ayesha running interference when Mariam tries to do too much. In the midst of it all, Nicky reigns supreme, busy but smiling, chatting to the girls as he works. Joe pokes his head in halfway through and realises Nicky’s barely using his wand, opting instead to cook wandless so his hands can remain free. Zahra exclaims at each new feat of magic, delighted, and Nicky looks quietly pleased, gaining enough confidence to show off a little. It’s the first time Joe has seen Nicky use his newfound abilities so much and so publicly, even if it’s just with family. Joe pops in to steal a kiss and some snacks, dodging the dish towel Ayesha flicks at him. Then he goes in search of his father.

Ibrahim is waiting around the corner of the house, out of sight of the kitchen. Joe holds out the plate he’d snuck out, and Ibrahim chuckles as they share their illicit appetisers, just as they’d done when Joe was little and too impatient to wait.

“Nicky well-distracted, then?” Ibrahim asks, and Joe nods, brushing his fingers off and setting the plate down. Ibrahim looks around like they’re in a spy movie before reaching into his pocket.

“Followed your instructions exactly,” he says, pressing a small package into Joe’s hands. “One of a kind, truly. We think they’re amazing, Yusuf.”

Joe fumbles with the drawstrings and tips the contents into his palm. They catch the evening light, and he stares, transfixed; he isn’t sure how much time passes before his father takes his hands and tips the precious items back into their bag for him, tying it tight and tucking it into Joe’s jacket pocket. Joe puts his hand over it, pressing it against his chest before looking back at his father, ready to say thank you. He stops short when he realises there are tears on his father’s cheeks.

“ _Baba_ –” he starts, reaching up to wipe them dry, and his father smiles and puts his hands on Joe’s shoulders.

“My son,” he says, eyes running over Joe’s face. “My dear son.”

There’s no need to lighten the moment with his father; no need to crack a joke to feel more comfortable. Joe smiles him, his own eyes starting to sting.

“I was scared you wouldn’t get this opportunity,” Ibrahim says, and his voice is choked. “When it happened, your mother and I…we thought we’d lost you Yusuf. We really thought we had.”

“But you didn’t,” Joe says, fingers tightening against his father’s face. “I’m right here.”

“Yes,” Ibrahim says, moving a hand to cradle Joe’s head. “You’ve always been a miracle.”

Joe pulls his father into a bone-crushingly tight hug, both of them rocking slightly. Usually, he and his father have endless words to share. Right now, neither can speak coherently, and yet know exactly what the other is trying to say.

“Thank you, baba,” Joe says finally. He can feel the package pressed between them, right over his heart. “ _Thank you_.”

\--

Dinner is heavenly. They haven’t had a proper meal together in a very long time, what with everyone in different cities and Joe’s offseason usually crammed full of reunions. Their old dining table is a little more cramped with Nicky there, and Joe is fondly reminded of childhood mealtimes, aggressively knocking elbows to fight over food. There’s less fighting now but a similar amount of exuberance, everybody exclaiming over each new dish. Nicky blushes furiously, and Zahra presses her ice-cold glass against his cheek, making him yelp and tip into Joe, who wraps an arm around his shoulders and kisses his other cheek.

“To the chef,” Ibrahim says, raising his glass, and everyone beams at Nicky. “And of course, to my beautiful wife.”

Mariam _tsks_ as everyone salutes her, and then flaps her hand at Ibrahim when he opens his mouth again.

“Food first,” she says, and the al-Kaysani siblings all laugh. “Or it’ll be cold by the time you finish, Ibrahim.”

He sighs heavily, but he’s smiling when he gives Nicky a conspiratorial look.

“That’s the secret to al-Kaysani men,” he says, gesturing at Joe, who’s already loading his plate. “Distract us with food before we can get talking.”

“I’ve noticed,” Nicky says, and Joe only holds his offended expression until he gets his first bite in.

Dinner is interspersed with story after story – some from the siblings’ childhoods, which include many contradictions and several impassioned arguments. Ibrahim and Mariam share stories too, which Joe and his sisters have all heard a million times before. But Nicky listens to each one so intently that he forgets to eat, and nothing eggs Ibrahim on like a freshly enraptured audience. This carries on throughout dinner and past dessert, at which point Ibrahim and Mariam move Nicky to the living room while the al-Kaysani siblings take over clean-up duties.

“Nicky is such a blessing,” Zahra says, splashing Joe with water from the sink. “Now we’re saved from having to hear about mama and baba’s wedding _yet again_.”

“I think they’re still on the engagement, actually,” Amira says, carrying more plates over. “They’ve been talking about the engagement for ages now.”

“Well, it’s a good story,” Joe says, and steadfastly ignores the looks from all of his sisters.

They call it quits around eleven, after presents and games, and Mariam getting so sentimental about having them all under one roof again that she cries a little. It’s a sure way to make the other al-Kaysanis a little teary-eyed, even Ayesha. Nicky looks mildly alarmed. Mariam lingers after Ibrahim has said goodnight, hugging each of them in turn. She gets to Nicky last, who bends down to embrace her, eyes closing as she hugs him. She whispers something to him, too soft for the rest of them to hear, and Nicky’s eyes open wide again, staring at her as he straightens up. Mariam laughs, one hand against his cheek, before bidding them all goodnight and following her husband. 

Joe gets comfortable as Nicky showers, changing into his rattiest pair of sweatpants and wrapping his hair in a towel that’s been charmed to re-hydrate his curls. He also sneaks back to the kitchen to grab his favourite box of chocolates, while no one’s awake to judge him. Well – no one except Nicky of course, who raises his eyebrows at the sight of Joe, lounging across the bed with an old sketchbook in his lap, pencils in one hand and chocolate in the other.

“Come join me and you won’t be mad,” Joe says, shuffling back to his side of the bed. He must look _so_ enticing right now, pink towel clashing with his green sleep shirt, chocolate stains on his sweatpants. But hey, that’s what being home is all about, isn’t it? He sketches out a few more lines before he realises Nicky is still staring at him, unmoving, expression inscrutable.

“…Nicky?” Joe asks, picking up another chocolate. “You alright?”

“Yusuf,” Nicky starts, and then clears his throat. “Yusuf – you know how much I love you, don’t you?”

Joe pauses, chocolate halfway to his mouth. It’s not the question itself – he knows the answer to that, of course he does. But the abruptness of it, and the seriousness of Nicky’s voice stumps him for a moment, so much so that his reply sounds more like another question.

“Yes?”

Nicky takes half a step forward. “And you know that I would do anything for you and your family, yes?”

Joe nods. “Of course, Nicky. What –”

“And you know I want to spend the rest of my life with you, don’t you?”

Joe’s jaw clicks shut at that. The chocolate is melting in his fingers, but he can’t seem to move. Of course he _knows_ that, intellectually; they’d talked about their futures together many times after that dumb trophy husband joke back in September. They’d worked hard throughout their year off to be able to have those conversations, learning to be explicit with assumptions and fears and desires. And Joe knows that, for once, Nicky isn’t fussed about the logistics or the details. He just wants _them_ , wants _Joe_ , for as long as they have; no matter how improbable that concept had seemed to Nicky before. He’s never said it so simply before, though, and not with that expression on his face.

“Yes,” Joe says when he finds his voice again. “And you know – you know I do as well, Nicolò.”

“Yes,” Nicky says, nodding like something’s been resolved. “Good. Thanks.”

Joe stares at him.

“ _Good, thanks_?” he repeats, and finally manages to put the chocolate down. “Nicky, get over here, oh my God –”

He gets melted chocolate all over Nicky’s face. It’s a fun end to the evening.

~*~

They make it to playoffs. They’re not leading their conference but they’re solidly in, and the mood before their first playoff practice is exuberant. Nile is pinning her hair back when Joe catches her eye from across the room, and she nods, turning the music off. Joe stands, clearing his throat, and everyone hushes immediately. Nicky sits in the stall next to him, and Joe glances down at him before looking around at the team. Andy and the coaching crew are all standing by the door. Caitlin slips in past them, joining Chris in one corner.

“So…” Joe says into the sudden silence, and then laughs, running a hand through his hair. His smile is unsteady. “I think we all know what I’m about to say.”

The room freezes; not from shock but in preparation, all of them waiting for the blow to land.

“I’m retiring at the end of this season,” Joe says in one breath, and all the air leaves the room. Someone mutters, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” like they’re in actual pain, and several people raise their hands to their mouths. Joe had told many of them already; they’d _known_ all season, but the _reality_ of it… Joe blinks, forehead creasing, lips pressing together. Beside him, Nicky reaches out and takes his hand, and Joe grips back so tightly his knuckles go pale.

“I won’t announce it publicly until playoffs are over, but I wanted to confirm it with you all now,” he says. “This is it for me.”

Moran puts his head in his hands. June and Olivia’s arms grip around Nile’s waist, her arms around their shoulders. Joe takes a breath and says, “So I just wanted to say before playoffs start – thank you. All of you.” He makes eye contact with each of them. “We all know how the Guard is a family. And you’ll never get rid of me that easily.” He laughs wetly. “But it’s just been…” He sniffs, free hand coming up to press against the corner of his eye. “God, it’s really just been…”

“For fuck’s sake, al-Kaysani,” Andy says, voice harsh from keeping it steady. “You’re ruining the pre-practice pump up.”

Everyone laughs, despite the tears in their eyes. Caitlin discreetly passes Chris some tissues, and when he puts a tentative arm around her, she just leans against him, eyes focusing back on Joe.

“Sorry, boss,” Joe says, inclining his head at her before clearing his throat again. “Just – this doesn’t change anything. Let’s focus on playoffs, let’s get this done. And no matter the outcome – thank you. Thank you for the best run I could’ve ever dreamt of. Thank you for everything.”

The locker room breaks into applause, covering the sound of sniffling and cleared throats. Nicky stands and Joe turns towards him, embrace tight despite all the padding between them. Nicky looks at the team over Joe’s shoulder, and his expression is steady, clear, and shared by all of them. No matter what – they will win this season. Resolve solidifies between them, so strong it’s almost tangible, and everyone looks at Nile, who nods. It’s time to get themselves a dynasty.

~*~

They scrape through Round One, which puts them all on edge, but also helps them ram through Round Two in three games flat. The mood in the team balances along a knife’s edge, caught between tension and excitement and wilful determination. Moran has taken so many quaffle hits by the end of Round Two that they have to switch in Ulliel as Keeper for the Semi-Finals. There’s no nice way to be introduced to playoffs, but having your first games be in the Semi-Final Round is particularly rough. Nile finds her bent over one of the bathroom sinks before the first game, chest heaving, ghostly pale.

“I feel like throwing up but nothing’s coming out,” Ulliel mutters, fingers gripping the sides of the basin. “At this rate, it’ll come out in the air.”

“I’m sure that’d be very effective,” Nile says mildly, handing over her water bottle. “Don’t think I’d score if the Keeper vomited on me.”

Ulliel laughs, rinsing out her mouth before drinking. She’s not quite a rookie, only two years behind Nile, but playoffs are a formative point in any players’ life. Nile remembers her first playoffs; she remembers feeling just how Ulliel looks.

“I keep having nightmares about Joe catching the snitch but still losing because I’ve let too many goals in,” Ulliel says, and Nile reaches out to squeeze her arm. “I know he keeps trying to tell us it’s fine but – fuck, Nile. We have to win. We _have_ to.”

Nile looks at her; at the anxiety and determination radiating from her face and marvels at the loyalty the Guard inspires, despite this only being Ulliel’s first season with them. It’s the same loyalty that had got them through last season; it’s the same loyalty that helped them bounce back this season and has driven them through playoffs. She looks at Ulliel and thinks _we’re going to be fine_.

“I know,” Nile says, and steps behind Ulliel to help secure her braids. They lock eyes in the mirror. “But we’re going to get there by focusing on one game at a time, and we can always come back from Game One. It’s exactly what you’ve trained for, and you were stunning in the regular season.” She finishes pinning Ulliel’s hair and squeezes her shoulders. “And remember, you’re never alone. Chris and Nicky will break up every shot they can before it reaches you. The girls and I will be covering for points. And Joe will do his utmost to keep it short. I know the hoops can feel isolating but – we’ve got you.”

One of Ulliel’s hands comes up to grip at Nile’s on her shoulder.

“How do you always know what to say?” she asks, and Nile smiles at her in the mirror. 

“I don’t,” she says. “But I do know how you feel. I had this exact conversation with Booker – yeah, Le Livre – and it wasn’t even for playoffs. I was just that nervous. Learnt a lot about Keeping from him too. So I can empathise, at least. Just don’t get in your own way and we’ll carry each other through.”

“Alright,” Ulliel says, turning around. She takes a deep breath, shoulders squaring. “After you, Captain.”

~*~

The Semi-Final Round is beyond rough. They’re neck and neck with the Horntails until they eek out a win in Game Five, Joe and the Chasers desperately trying to alleviate each other’s pressure. The whole team is wound so tight they can barely feel the victory. But they still win. They’re still through to the Championship Finals, the final Round of it all. They’re still on track. 

At their opening practice, Joe claps his hands on the pitch and says, “Alright, put away the torture devices. Free flight today.”

Chris freezes from where he’s carrying out the practice bludgers and target dummies. His permanent playoff frown deepens. “Free flight?” he asks, like Joe had suggested he play without a bat. “Joe, we don’t have time –”

“Shush, son,” Joe says, and the team snorts. Chris turns to Nicky as he joins them from the tunnel.

“Nicky,” he says, obviously seeking logic. “Joe wants a free flight when Game One _of the Finals_ is just around the –”

Nicky slings an arm around his shoulders and says, “Maybe you should listen to your father, Chris.”

Chris gapes as the team starts to laugh.

“We’ve had an insane three rounds,” Joe says, “and while I appreciate the do-or-die attitude, it’s not sustainable unless we _chill the fuck out_ before Round Four. So – no drills today. Let’s have some mock-ups, let’s run some strategy, but let’s also remember why the fuck we’re all here, okay?” He spreads his arms wide, smile shining in the sun. “It’s Quidditch, baby!”

He turns and kicks off in one smooth motion, the team hot on his heels, elated. They instinctively fall into their V formation for a lap around the stadium. Chris, still clutching all the Beaters’ practice gear, stares after them, and then back at Nicky.

“Have I gone mad?” he asks. “Have I gone absolutely fucking mad?”

Nicky looks at Chris and sees himself so clearly at twenty-five, just before being traded to the Guard. Chris is better balanced than he ever was, but he has the same wild-eyed dedication; the underlying fear of relaxing even for a second, just in case it costs them. It was only with the Guard that he himself had learnt how much it was worth the risk, to have a little fun again. The team circles overhead, laughter drifting down through the clear air, and Nicky loves them all so much he can’t stop smiling.

“It’ll relax your swing,” he says, and Chris squints at him in suspicion. “Or you’ll go into Round Four and injure yourself.”

“…alright,” Chris mutters, dropping the gear and mounting his broom. Nicky follows suit, but puts a hand over Chris’ before they kick off.

“It’s Joe’s final few games,” he says softly, and Chris stares at him, throat working. “And what Joe wants more than anything is to be with the team. As we are, when we’re having the best time together. Not so stressed about winning that we’re threatening to snap at any minute.”

“We have to –” Chris starts, and Nicky shakes his head.

“What will happen will happen,” he says, and watches Chris’ eyebrows shoot up. “We’ve done everything we can, we’ve trained more than any other season before. It’s time to enjoy ourselves a little, yes?”

“Dad is such a bad influence on you, holy fuck,” Chris says, but his frown is starting to lighten. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with him after I moved out.”

Nicky laughs, reaching out to ruffle Chris’ hair like Joe would always do when Chris was having a meltdown on their couch.

“That’s very sweet, Chris,” he says, and then tilts his head. “But we really have done everything we can. I’ll admit that Joe’s definitely helped me to enjoy myself though –”

“Nope!” Chris says, kicking off in such a hurry he almost bowls Nicky over. “I got the message, thanks!”

Nicky laughs, kicking off after him, accelerating to tag Chris on the back.

“Huang’s it!” he shouts, and the rest of the team holler as Nicky dives backwards out of the way; Chris curses and banks hard towards Nile, who shrieks and swerves upwards, and then they’re off, the team swooping around each other in the same game they’ve been playing since they were children. As usual, Joe is hardest to tag, pulling manoeuvres that belong in an all-star game. It’s always been a privilege to watch him fly, Nicky thinks, and gets tagged by Ulliel in his distraction. Joe laughs at his demise and Nicky grins, pressing flat against his broom handle to streak after him. The entire team eggs them on as Joe takes Nicky on a wild chase around the stadium, taunts trailing in the air between them. Nicky finally catches him around the goal hoops, hand catching Joe’s shoulder over the left ring. Joe yelps, braking, before yelling “Bans don’t apply during free flights!” and pulling Nicky in for a kiss, their brooms knocking together while the team heckles their hearts out.

They still practice to some extent, but it feels like stretching out a muscle rather than a sprint. The team loosens up as they run short rounds of mock games, leaving time to simply fly _._ At one point, Andy gets her bat out to join them, and the team quickly dissipates to ‘take a break’. She, Nicky and Chris remain in the air, smacking practice bludgers back and forth between them. Three generations of Beaters on one pitch, all with different swings and yet all connected; Nicky can feel Andy’s influence on his play just as he can see his own in Chris’. The _crack crack crack_ of shots ringing between them sounds like music again, which Nicky had feared would be impossible after last year. Like many of his fears – and God, does he have many – he’d been proven wrong.

After a while, Andy strong-arms Chris into taking a break. She and Nicky watch as he joins the rest of the team, who are lying in a sweaty pile on the grass below. He’s immediately pulled into a huddle with the other Beaters, who all lean in to hear him speak. Nicky remembers meeting Chris for the first time on that very grass, so painfully anxious Nicky hadn’t known how to make him feel better. He remembers the first time Chris had laughed in their home; the first time he’d felt comfortable enough to make fun of Nicky; that One Terrible Hotel Incident that the team still teases them for. And now there he is – a leader before he should be but a damn good one at that. Nicky is so proud of him his chest aches with it.

“This was a good idea,” he says, and Andy hums, ankles crossing under her broom. She always looks happier in the air, cropped hair swept back, bat tucked under one arm. Nicky thinks he must be similar. He’s always been proud of the many ways he and Andy match. He understands her drive, her methodologies; he understands her compassion: quiet, effective, and softer than most people ever appreciate. He still treasures his first private practice with her, six seasons ago now. She’d watched him warm up and then had run him through test drills like he was under a microscope. That, he’d been used to; that, he could work with. Afterwards, she’d clapped him on the back and given him his first smile, saying, “Well, aside from the massive stick up your ass, that was great.” Considering the decrease in stick/ass jokes by now, Nicky thinks he’s improved. He brings himself back to the present as he says, “The team has done so much better than anyone predicted.”

“That’s because they’re idiots,” Andy says, and Nicky laughs. Andy turns to him, a matching smile around her mouth. “They thought we’d collapse last season, and we still pulled through. They thought we’d struggle too much to make playoffs this season – and now we’re in the finals. We’ve made it through the worst and we’ll fucking do it again, Nicky.”

He nods, and she reaches out to grip his shoulder.

“We didn’t like it,” she says, “but we made it through without you both, and came out stronger for it. We’d prefer otherwise but –” she exhales, fingers tightening. “We’ll still be us after he leaves. And we will still make him proud.”

Nicky looks at her, eyes stinging a little, and sees his own feelings reflected in Andy’s face. He covers her hand with his own, so grateful for her he doesn’t know what else to say except, “Thank you, Andromache.” He remembers her face at the hospital when she’d said _Nicolò_ , _you know why_ ; her sitting with him on the days when he’d been too scared to move, or speak, or breathe. He has trusted Andy with his life, but more importantly, with Joe’s, and he doesn’t regret it, despite it all. He hopes she doesn’t either.

Joe dawdles as practice draws to a close, and Nicky stays out with him, flying lazy loops around the pitch and enjoying the late afternoon sun. Nicky is more tired and sore after these three rounds than all their previous playoffs combined, and he knows that’s inevitable. He is more aware than ever of his body slowing down, what with Joe’s retirement and all the research he’s involved in. He lets those thoughts slide from his mind as he hovers though, watching Joe and Andy pack gear on the ground below. He’ll think things over, soon. But not this season. Not right now.

He’s about to descend when Joe kicks off again, flying up to join Nicky in the air. He’s got one of the snitch boxes in his hands, a sly grin on his face.

“Think you can catch one?” he asks, flicking at the latch. Nicky rolls his eyes.

“I’m not taking your job when you leave,” he says, “but yes, of course I can catch one.”

“Ooh, strong words, Genovese,” Joe says, and releases the snitch. It flits out, wings shimmering, and Joe whoops as Nicky gives chase. They’ve never been able to resist a dare from one another. Nicky catches it several minutes later, fingers closing solidly around the middle. He’d taken his gloves off already, and the snitch is cool against his palm, glinting against his skin. It shivers in his hand, wings fluttering before settling in defeat. Nicky raises his arm, triumphant, and does a mocking re-enactment of Joe’s post-catch celebration. Joe laughs, long and loud, and Nicky thrills at being the one to make him so joyous.

“Very impressive, _caro_ ,” Joe says, flying over, and Nicky holds out his hand, expecting Joe to take the snitch and release it again, if only to show Nicky how much faster _he_ could catch it. Instead, Joe just lets Nicky drop the snitch back into its open box, before locking it shut and tucking it under one arm. Nicky takes that as a concession and grins. They’re both silent for a long moment, smiling at each other in the middle of the empty stadium. Nicky thinks of all the things he wants to say; every memory they have shared here that he wants to thank Joe for. In the end though, all that comes out of his mouth is, “I love you.”

From the answering expression on Joe’s face, it’s enough.

~*~

In the end, it all comes down to Game Seven. Getting there is brutal; every game is packed, stands heaving with fans as the Guard and the Manticores face off. It’s a bloodbath both on and off the pitch: every win and loss hotly contested, every penalty and injury heightening the tension until they’re at boiling point. They limp off the pitch after Game Six, victorious but so, _so_ exhausted, and there’s a grim sense of relief in the locker room afterwards. Either way, it will all be over soon. Either way, Game Seven will end playoffs.

It will also be the end of Joe’s career.

It’s poetic, really, ending with a League Championship Final. Of course, it’ll be most poetic if they win, but hey. There are worse endings. Publicly, there’s still hot debate over whether he’ll be retiring or not; his face is everywhere, even outside of Quidditch, and the team is playing article bingo with speculation clichés. Joe laughs along but doesn’t read them, trusting Caitlin to tell him if anything interesting comes up.

The day before Game Seven, Joe attends his final practice. A weight settles heavy across the entire team, unavoidable now. It’s Joe’s final warmup, his final flight drill, his final snitch run. He tries not to sink into that feeling; tries to go through it like he’s at any other practice. Andy doesn’t run them hard – that would only be detrimental now, the night before the Final – and instead, helps the team shoulder the gravity of what’s happening. Quite frankly, it feels like the team cares a lot more about it being Joe’s final game than it being the fucking _League Championship Final_ , and that makes Joe want to laugh and cry all at once. He has to put his foot down and call an end to practice, just to make sure everyone goes home and rests.

He does stay, though, long after they leave the pitch. Joe spends time with every crew member: each of their equipment staffers, their training coaches, Celeste and her team of PTs and Healers. They have long transitioned from colleagues to friends, but their dedication to helping Joe return for his final season means they cannot be anything except family now.

“Don’t get too upset,” Celeste jokes, even as she wipes tears from the corners of her eyes. “We’re going to be chasing you up for tests for a long while yet, al-Kaysani.”

“As much as I hate those,” Joe says, “I’ll make an exception for the woman who saved my life.”

“ _Oh_ _mon dieu_ ,” Celeste says, flapping a hand at Nicky, who’s standing with their Equipment Manager. “Take him away, Nicky, take him away. He was a terrible patient and he’s just trying to make me forget that time he ran away and caused a hospital-wide panic.”

“In my defence,” Joe says as Nicky laughs, “I was very drugged at the time. Extremely drugged.”

“As if you wouldn’t have run away sober,” Celeste scoffs, and Joe tilts his head.

“Touché,” he says, and slings an arm around her when she rolls her eyes. “But you still love me.”

“Yeah,” Celeste says, leaning against him. “We do.”

~*~

They’re on the pitch for Game Seven before Joe knows it. In the second before the opening whistle blows, Joe looks down at his broom and thinks _oh shit, how the fuck do I fly –_

But then the whistle blows and his feet kick off; muscle memory pushing him upwards; the panic that had gripped his throat swept away by the familiar rush of air. He feels the team rise with him, as familiar now as his own limbs. He sees Nile, dropping down to catch the quaffle; Chris, swerving towards the nearest bludger. He locks eyes with Nicky just before they peel away from each other, and Joe feels it all rush back: their training, their strategy, the decades of work that have led him to this moment. He nods, and Nicky smiles back, sharp and focused.

It’s time to play.

\--

After an hour, they’re stuck at a ninety-point draw. Nile’s dodging a bludger when she feels it – the snitch flying so close to her face its wings actually brush her face. She doesn’t think; she just swerves out of the way, and a split-second later Joe is tearing past her, tilting his broom in a breakneck drop as the snitch dives for the ground. The opposing Seeker is right behind him, gaining on Joe as they plunge downwards. Nile’s heart jumps into her throat –

A bludger shoots upwards, perfectly aimed, and the other Seeker is forced to swerve with a yell. Nile sees Nicky pull out of the shot and dive after Joe, Chris flanking, the entire stadium gasping as they all hurtle towards the ground –

Without a second to spare, Joe pulls out of his dive, so low his boots almost hit the grass. He’s flying so fast he’s a blur, and the snitch glints just ahead of him, just out of reach. Everyone’s converging on Joe, and there’s only moments before the snitch will dart out of sight again –

Joe flings himself off his broom. He brakes like a madman and throws himself forwards, arm outstretched before he hits the grass and rolls, over and over with his own momentum. He comes to a skidding halt, horribly far from his broom, and lies motionless for a long moment, face-down. The entire stadium freezes, players and spectators caught on the knife’s edge between terror and hope…

And then Joe raises his arm from where he’s lying, fist clenched high above his head.

There’s gold between his fingers.

\--

Everything after that is a blur. Nicky, sprinting across the grass to throw himself on top of Joe, followed closely by the rest of the Guard; the stadium drowning them with cheering and confetti and sparkling lights; Nile lifting the Championship Trophy as the team lifts her.

She doesn’t know what she says in the rush of interviews directly after. Her voice is hoarse and all she can hear is the roar in her ears. But she must say something vaguely coherent because the reporter grins at her and nods, before swinging the mic over to Joe, who happens to be standing next to her, ready to go.

“Anything to add, Joe?” the reporter asks. “Now that you’re a dynasty winner?”

“Sure,” Joe says, smiling his million-dollar smile. He looks every bit like the star the sport has lauded him to be, and the legend that it will always remember him as. “Did I mention I’m retiring?”

And with that, he slings an arm around Nile and turns them towards the tunnel, leading the Guard off the pitch.

There’s a party with their name on it. They sure as hell deserve it.

\--

They take up an entire restaurant for dinner; the team, crew and immediate family members all crowding together in jubilation. Everyone else gorges while the nutritionists watch the players like hawks, making sure they refuel properly before the drinking starts in earnest. Nicky can barely think over all the noise, and doesn’t realise he’s not moving until Amira nudges him gently and says, “Nicky, please try and eat a bit more. You can stare at my brother later.”

“Hm?” he says, and then blushes as he registers her words. It’s not on purpose – he’s just never learnt to look away when Joe’s like this: beaming and exuberant and the centre of attention. “Oh, yes. Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” she says, and then grips his hand with surprising strength. “I’m really, _really_ grateful he has you, Nicky,” she says, and Nicky’s throat tightens at her sincerity. “We all are.”

They both glance over to where Joe is sitting with his parents, chatting to Andy, while Ayesha talks to Nile and Zahra flirts with the rookies, in her customary bid to rile Joe up.

“Thank you,” Nicky says, voice low. “I’m really grateful, too. For Joe, of course, but also for all of you. You’ve all been so…” He trails off, unable to find the right words. Amira seems to understand anyway, giving him a quiet smile.

“Well, you make a great al-Kaysani,” she says, and his brain is too slow to process her words before she’s excusing herself to get more food. Nicky stares after her for a long moment. Her words buzz in his brain.

After dinner, they say goodnight to the al-Kaysanis and several others who would prefer not to attend the customary Championship celebrations. Nicky doesn’t blame them. The team is getting progressively more delirious, exhaustion overruled by an entire season’s worth of adrenaline and their post-win high. Nicky feels somewhat alert again as they leave the restaurant. He’ll crash later, but right now, with the team all around him and their win under their feet, Nicky feels like he’s flying.

\--

They end up at a top-floor bar overlooking the city, and Nicky’s not sure what’s strange about it until he realises there are no fans taking pictures, or strangers trying to get free drinks. It’s just the Guard and an open bar tab, backlit by low lights and overly tasteful décor. Nicky shoots Caitlin a grateful look across the main lounge. She gives him a thumbs up before Chris pulls her away to dance. Usually, Nicky would join, but the latent energy under his skin is making his brain fizz, and he thinks he should pay attention to that. Besides, his alcohol tolerance isn’t what it used to be. No need to give Chris more reasons to call him an old man.

So instead, he steps away to explore the rest of the floor, before finding the entrance to the extended balcony. The night air is cool compared to the bar, and Nicky breathes a quiet sigh of relief as he shuts the doors behind him, muffling the noise of the party. He likes being adjacent to team things, sometimes; close enough to be a part of it, but able to turn the volume down when needed. When he turns around, he finds a familiar figure silhouetted against the railing, backed by the twinkling lights of the city. Nicky smiles.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says as he joins Joe by the railing, and Joe laughs and puts a hand around Nicky’s face, touch soft and lingering. It’s the same hand he had won the game with, just a few hours prior, and Nicky turns his head and presses his lips to Joe’s palm.

“Is it too much?” Joe asks, gesturing back to the bar. “We can go if –”

“No, no,” Nicky says, still cradling Joe’s hand in his. “I like it. And I want to be with the team. I just needed a little breather.”

“Same,” Joe says, and they both look out over the city, Nicky’s hand over Joe’s on the railing now. When Nicky had imagined this moment, post-Finals, he’d thought he’d be crushed. He thought he’d be thinking of next season: Joe missing from the stall next to him, no longer flying circles around them on the pitch. And there’s an ache in his chest when he imagines that, but…

He finds himself thinking instead of coming home to Joe. Not just next season, or next year, but in all the years Nicky can imagine. He thinks of Joe’s groggy expression in the morning and how he kisses Nicky goodnight; he thinks of quiet evenings on the couch, engrossed in their own projects but sharing that space, and how Joe would pretend to be interested in Beater gear breakdowns and he would pretend to understand the difference in Joe’s clothing designs. He thinks of Joe’s endless patience, waiting for Nicky to find his words or to act upon a revelation. He thinks of Joe’s family, who are now so very much his.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Joe asks, and Nicky realises he’s been staring again. He blinks, straightening, and Joe laughs, pretending to preen. “It’s fine if you were just thinking about how pretty I am. I understand.”

Nicky wants to laugh too, but there’s something building in his throat, blossoming out from his chest. Joe tilts his head, forehead creasing.

“ _Ya amar,_ ” he says, “are you alright?”

“I –” Nicky starts, and when he opens his mouth again he finds them – the words that have been buzzing in his head all evening, suddenly as clear as the lights below them. “Yusuf,” he says, and his heart is in his mouth but his voice is absolutely steady, so sure now that he can’t hold it in a moment longer. “If you’ll have me – I think we should get married.”

Joe’s jaw clicks shut, whatever he’d been about to say forgotten. His eyes go so wide Nicky can see all the lights reflected in them, like stars across the night sky.

“Oh my God,” Joe says faintly, and Nicky smiles at him, eyebrows raising. He doesn’t think it’s a surprise, but he supposes saying the actual words is always different. “Oh my God,” Joe repeats, and then he grips Nicky’s shoulders, expression going a little manic. “Nicky – Nicolò – oh my fucking God, wait here, don’t move, don’t fucking move okay I’ll be _right back_ –”

“Oh, alright,” Nicky says, a little perplexed. Joe grins at him, smile unfurling like a sunrise in the night, and then turns on his heel and takes off at a sprint.

“Don’t move!” he shouts over his shoulder, and Nicky stares after him as he disappears back inside.

“Alright,” Nicky says to empty air, and turns back to look over the city while he waits. They have the rest of their lives ahead of them. Nicky can wait.

\--

Caitlin is just thinking about rounding up the team when Joe comes tearing through the main room, leaping over several chairs in the process. For someone who’s just played a full season and a Game Seven playoff Final, it’s far too energetic.

“Joe,” she calls, striding after him. “Joe, where are you – the fireworks are soon –”

“Sorry, Caity!” Joe calls, attracting several stares as he weaves past team and crew to sprint for the coat room. He reappears a moment later, pausing only to grip her by the arms and spin her around. She yelps, teetering on her high heels, and he steadies her with a laugh. His hair is askew and he looks absolutely unhinged. “Listen, can you keep everyone off the balcony for like, fifteen minutes?”

“…okay” she says, but he’s already off, running like Andy’s behind him with her whistle.

“What’s he on?” Olivia asks from the nearest couch. “I couldn’t run right now if my life depended on it.”

“Who knows,” Caitlin says, staring after him. She has a good hunch, but that’s beside the point. She only has one job now – keep everyone off that damn balcony until it’s all clear. She’s certainly received stranger requests from Joe, and she’s never failed to deliver before. She hopes it’s what she thinks it is. It’s about goddamn time.

\--

Joe returns several moments later, breathless and clutching his side.

“A stitch already?” Nicky asks, leaning against the balcony. “No wonder you’re retiring.”

“Pretend that never happened,” Joe says, returning to his spot beside Nicky. “Go back to where we were before.”

“Oh, yes,” Nicky says, head tilting. “You mean when I proposed to you and you ran away?”

“That’s not – I just had to – that’s not what happened,” Joe says, still wheezing. There’s no way he’s winded from such a short sprint, but his breath is refusing to return to him. Nicky’s smirk is not helping things, either.

“I think that’s exactly what happened, actually,” Nicky says, leaning in to straighten Joe’s collar. “I’m heartbroken.”

“Oh, c’mon – I mean _obviously,_ I want –” Joe retorts, and then groans at his own incoherency. He takes a deep, steadying breath and straightens, hands coming up to grip Nicky’s.

“Nicolò,” he starts, trying to remember the hundreds of speeches he has practiced for this moment. All his brain provides is white noise, but his mouth keeps going without him, spurred on by the expression on Nicky’s face. “Nicolò, s _ei l'amore assoluto della mia vita_. You are beyond anything I could have ever imagined, and you make me happier than I thought humanly possible.” He remembers one set of lines he knows Nicky will roast him for, for the rest of time. “From the moment I met you, you took my breath away –”

“Because I broke two of your ribs?”

“– and you really swept me off my feet –”

“You were already in the air, actually –”

“And I fell in love with you before I realised what was happening –” Joe says, which does make Nicky draw up short. “– and I have fallen more in love with you every day since then.”

“That’s a lot of love,” Nicky says. His tone is teasing but his eyes are shining.

“I can’t help it,” Joe says, and Nicky laughs, leaning in to press his forehead against Joe’s. Joe doesn’t think Nicky’s breathing. “We have made it through the worst together,” he says, and Nicky nods, pressing a kiss to Joe’s trembling hands. “And I know we can do it again, no matter what happens. And I can’t _wait_ to keep spending the best times of my life with you.” He takes half a step back, fumbling in his jacket pocket. “So, Nicolò…”

“Oh my God,” Nicky says as Joe drops to one knee. “Joe, you don’t have to –”

Joe holds out the palm-sized box in his hands and lifts the lid. Nicky stares down for a long moment before tipping his head back and laughing.

“And people say _I’m_ obsessed,” he says, lifting Joe’s hands so he can inspect the snitch sitting against the plush velvet. Joe raises an eyebrow at him and Nicky rolls his eyes, reaching in to pick it up. At his touch, the snitch shivers, stirring to life, and Nicky looks mildly alarmed before the snitch lets out an almost audible sigh and clicks, one half swivelling and popping open to reveal…

“ _Dio_ ,” Nicky says, holding the open snitch in his hands like he’s never held anything so precious. “Is this – this is the snitch you got me to catch, isn’t it?”

“The one and only,” Joe says, still looking up at Nicky from down on one knee. “I only wanted it to open for you. I knew I wanted to give it to you this way, and I had the rings made back home, I just didn’t know – the _timing_ –”

“And then I beat you to it?” Nicky says, and Joe huffs out a laugh, hands still gripping the snitch box.

“At least I had a ring prepared,” Joe says, and Nicky tears his eyes away from said ring to pull a face.

“You _ran away from my proposal_ ,” he says, and Joe makes an unflattering imitation of Nicky’s expression. This isn’t at all how he’d imagined his speech going, and yet – it’s perfect.

“So since you asked first, I just wanted to check…” he says, and Nicky refocuses, eyes widening. “Nicolò – will you marry me?”

“ _Dio Santo_ ,” Nicky says, reaching out to tug at Joe. “ _Sì,_ _razza di stronzo_ , of course I will, get up here and put this on me –

“Okay okay okay,” Joe says, trying to calm his frankly alarming heart rate as he staggers up, both their hands knocking as Joe takes the ring out of the snitch and Nicky drops it back into its box, and then Joe is shoving the box away and taking Nicky’s left hand in his, so keyed up he can barely slide the ring onto Nicky’s finger…

It’s a perfect fit – of course it is – but relief still washes over him as he holds Nicky’s hand up to the light. The gold is perfect against Nicky’s pale skin, and Joe can’t breathe when he looks at it, even though he’s imagined it a thousand times.

Nicky lets out a strangled noise and surges forwards, hands coming up around Joe’s face as he kisses him, knees knocking together as Joe kisses back for all he’s worth. Nicky keeps saying _sì, sì_ , _sì_ between each kiss, and Joe can feel the ring, cool against his temple from where Nicky’s hands are threaded through his hair.

“I can’t believe it,” Joe says, when they’re at risk of oxygen deprivation. “Nicky – we’re _engaged_ , holy fuck –”

“That’s usually how it works, yes,” Nicky says, and Joe nips at his lower lip before soothing it with more kisses. He’s about to suggest sneaking off this balcony when the door slams open, making them both jump. Chris is framed in the bright light, hand braced against the glass.

“Time to stop hogging the balcony, Daddy-o’s,” he says. He has evidently abandoned his own common-sense ban on alcohol for the celebrations, and is extremely red in the face. “I. Want. Fireworks.” He takes two steps forward and then stops, eyes focusing on the scene before him. Nicky glances at Joe, who shrugs, grinning. They have to start somewhere, after all. Nicky nods, before turning to Chris, expression carefully neutral. Very slowly, he raises his left hand.

“ _Christopher_ , I _told you to stay_ –” Caitlin says, skidding into view after Chris. She almost bowls Chris over from where he’s standing, frozen, and she clutches at him before she, too, takes in the scene.

“Wait…” Chris says, blinking hard. He’s going a little cross-eyed from staring at Nicky’s hand. “Wait – what…”

“Oh my God,” Caitlin says, hands tightening around Chris’ arm. “I knew it. _I knew it_!”

“Wait!” Chris says, sounding very overwhelmed, and Nicky takes pity on him and walks forward, free hand catching Joe’s so they’re still touching. Chris’ eyes flick comically between them. “Joe, did you – did you fucking – did you just –”

“Actually, Nicky asked first,” Joe says, and Nicky gives him a glowing smile. “But yes, Chris. That’s a ring.”

“Right,” Chris says, and takes in a slow, heaving breath, head nodding. “Sure. Sure sure sure sure sure.”

And then he promptly bursts into tears.

“Oh dear,” Nicky says, looking nonplussed. “That wasn’t quite the reaction I was –”

“What’s going on, are we late?” Moran says, opening up the other half of the balcony doors so the rest of the team and crew can spill out. Evidently, two minutes without Caitlin and they were all sheep without a shepherd. “Oh geez, what did you do to Chris now, Nicky? The season’s over!”

“Oh, nothing,” Nicky says. Joe laughs against his shoulder as Nicky raises his left hand again, and says with complete nonchalance, “I just showed him this.”

There’s another moment of stunned silence on the balcony, and Joe wishes he had his camera to capture the shot: the entirety of the Guard, caught in different stages of shock and realisation; all at different levels of sobriety, all of them comical.

Nile, June and Olivia let out identical shrieks, and that breaks the spell. Nile launches herself at Nicky and he catches her, stumbling a little as she bounces with excitement. Chris gathers himself enough to hug Joe and say, “Con – congratulations, I’m sorry, it’s been a long day, I shouldn’t drink –” and Joe laughs and noogies him as the rest of the Guard envelops them. Everyone is laughing and hugging and wiping their eyes, and Joe keeps saying, “Actually, Nicky asked – yeah I – thank you, _thank you_ –” in the middle of it all. Nicky finds his way back to Joe just as the first firework goes off behind them, and the team turns to enjoy the show. Joe walks them back to their original spot by the railing, one arm around Nicky’s waist to keep him close. The night sky is filling with a stunning array of multi-coloured sparks, and Joe watches them reflect in Nicky’s eyes, feeling completely secluded with him despite the hubbub all around them.

He’s not sure if the reality of it has hit him yet. All he knows is the press of the ring against their interlocked fingers, and the way Nicky kisses him under the glittering lights. Joe closes his eyes and sees the future sprawling ahead of them. He can see sketches of a new house and summer evenings spent in the backyard. He sees rumpled sheets and smells fresh coffee and hears – sometime later, maybe, but oh, _please_ – the sound of children laughing. He sees Nicky next to him in all of it, and that’s all he knows for sure. That’s all he needs to know.

\--

The party revives with renewed energy after the fireworks are over. Caitlin manages to order in a sumptuous cake that’s only iced with _Congratulations_ so as not to raise any eyebrows, and all the athletes get a head-start on their summer food-fest. Nile gets a beautiful candid of Joe and Nicky with their foreheads pressed together, Nicky’s ring clear on the hand cradling Joe’s cheek, and Joe sends it to the family group chat. He’s excited for the calls he’ll get in the morning. Nicky sends it to Caldara, who is evidently still awake as he calls back immediately. Nicky goes off to a side room to hear him, and when he returns, his eyes look suspiciously red. Joe holds out his arm and Nicky settles in beside him as the party carries on.

The team settles around them as the night goes on. People come and go around them, some leaning in to chat and others simply having their own conversations close by, like they don’t want to stray too far. Nicky is loose-limbed next to him, head on Joe’s shoulder. His hand is on Joe’s chest, and his eyes have been on his ring for the past half hour. Joe presses a kiss to the top of Nicky’s head and says,

“Do you like it?”

Nicky looks up and gives him such an incredulous look that Joe laughs, taking Nicky’s hand so he can look at it again. He’s seen it so much he knows it from every angle and yet, it’s never looked as good as it does now, safe on Nicky’s hand.

“Joe…” Nicky says, and tilts his fingers so the engraving on the ring catches the light, moving steadily along the metal. “Joe, is this really…”

Joe nods and presses Nicky’s hand back over his heart. They both watch as the engraving matches Joe’s heartbeat, rising and falling in time with each beat.

“I knew it,” Nicky says, and presses a kiss to Joe’s jaw, beard and all. “You incurable romantic.”

“Ah, it’s selfish, really,” Joe says, and Nicky quirks an eyebrow. “I have one that’s ready to be matched to yours.” He pauses, unsure if he should say this when Nicky is so mellow. “Now that I’m not…on the pitch with you anymore. I’ll still know. You’ll still be with me.”

Nicky looks at him for a long moment before sitting up to kiss him properly. From somewhere far away, he hears someone wolf whistle, and then the distinct sound of Chris smacking them and saying,

“Oh shush, let them be gross.”

Joe smiles into their kiss, and doesn’t stop smiling even when they’ve parted. Nicky’s hand stays in his.

\--

Even by three a.m., most of the team is still with them. Joe’s excuse is that Nicky had fallen asleep on him for a while, and he isn’t exactly light. Joe looks around at them all – dead on their feet but refusing to leave – and realises… _oh_.

No one wants to leave because leaving will make it _real_. It will mean that Joe’s time is over, undeniable and irrevocable. But if they all just stay together in the post-win haze, and just celebrate the win and the engagement; if the night never ends, if no one leaves and bursts the bubble…

Joe smiles so he doesn’t cry, and hugs everyone he passes: team, crew, _family._ They all hug him back, too tight and too long. He is so deliriously tired and ecstatically happy that he may as well be dreaming, but he does his best to commit every last moment to memory. Nile and her girls, re-enacting their favourite reactions to pranks; Chris piggybacking Caitlin when she finally admits defeat to her high heels; Nicky’s smile every time their eyes catch, unfurling like the turn of a new page.

It’s a fairytale farewell, but it’s not an end. Instead, it feels like the gentle close of one chapter, in anticipation for the next.

Joe can’t wait.

~*~

_Epilogue: One month later_

_~*~_

“Just for the record,” Nicky says, hands stretched out before him, “if someone is recording this, I _will_ divorce you, Yusuf.”

“Babe,” Joe says, trying not to giggle as Caitlin rolls her eyes from behind her camera, “we aren’t even married yet. Okay, just keep walking forwards – wait, watch out for –”

“Ow,” Nicky says, deadpan flat as his shin collides with yet another garden feature. “I can’t _watch out for things_ when I am _blindfolded_ , Joe, either take it off me or just _lead me_ , you ridiculous man.”

“Wow,” Chris says, and Nicky’s head snaps in his direction, startled. “That’s a bit harsh for your betrothed, isn’t it, Nicky? Can’t wait for the ‘trouble in paradise’ headlines.”

“Okay, if Chris is here, who else is?” Nicky says, crossing his arms and frowning under the blindfold. Considering the blindfold is actually a pink silk eye-mask, any gravitas is greatly diminished. “Joe? What are you playing at?”

“Nothing!” Joe says, which only makes Nicky frown harder, which in turn only makes Joe cave faster. He walks behind Nicky and puts his arms around him, chin coming to rest on Nicky’s shoulder. “Nothing you won’t like, I promise.”

“That’s what you said about those skinny jeans,” Nicky mutters, which makes Caitlin laugh, giving her away. Joe gets them moving before Nicky can protest, leading their motley crew down the winding path with a comical waddle, using his own legs to nudge Nicky’s forward. Nicky grumbles at the ridiculousness of it all, but he doesn’t let go from where Joe’s holding him, fingers interlocked around Nicky’s waist. The bright afternoon sun catches on both their rings, and Joe almost walks them off the path because he’s too busy smiling down at their hands.

“Alright,” he says, halting Nicky by hugging him tighter. “Any last guesses on where we are?”

Nicky pauses, head lifting. The surrounding summer washes over them as they all fall still: sunlight kissing their cheeks, birdsong sweet in the air; a gentle breeze carrying the smell of fresh grass and leaves.

“Cabin in the woods,” Nicky says finally. “You and the kids have finally conspired to murder me and hide my body in the lake.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Joe says, sighing dramatically. “I am banning you from all those muggle documentaries Booker keeps showing you, you’re _ruining_ the vibe –”

“What was I supposed to think, with the way you kidnapped me?” Nicky says, twisting around to glare at Joe, pink blindfold on and all. “Especially with the maniacal giggling fit you had when you shoved this stupid thing on my face.”

“That’s fair,” Caitlin says. “It does look rather stupid.”

“Hey, that’s a _high-quality item_ , thank you very much” Joe says, indignant. “Very soft on the eyes.”

“Well, can I finally take this high-quality item off and see what the fuss is all about?” Nicky asks, and Joe laughs, cupping Nicky’s exasperated expression between his hands before gently pulling off the eye-mask, smoothing Nicky’s hair back as he goes. Nicky squints for a moment, adjusting to the light, before blinking rapidly. His eyes widen as he turns in a slow circle, stopping when he sees where Joe has led them to. 

“Oh,” he says faintly, and Joe shares a triumphant grin with Chris and Caitlin. “Oh, _wow_.”

They are standing in front of a sprawling, stone-wood house, with a high, sloping roof and rounded windows. It’s straight from the storybooks Ibrahim had read to Joe as a child, and reminds him of an ambitious cottage that’s had several growth spurts. Voices can be heard from every open window, and Joe watches Nicky’s head tilt as he recognises them. Their nearest neighbours are too far away to distinguish, and the gardens give way to rolling hills, as far as the eye can see. Joe sees Nicky take a deep, full breath, his mouth softening at the edges, and resists the urge to kiss him senseless. It’s too early for Caitlin to hex him.

The front door swings open, breaking their reverie. Caldara leans out, one hand anchoring him to the doorframe.

“Nico!” he says, grinning widely. “You’re _late._ ”

Nicky’s mouth drops open.

“Calda?” he says, walking forwards to hug him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“God if I know.” Caldara squeezes Nicky until he wheezes. “Joe seduced me.”

“Well, he _is_ very good at that,” Nicky says, and Caldara lets go to make a gagging noise.

“You two are even more insufferable engaged,” he says, and Nicky retorts with, “Oh, like you were any better with Elisa –” just as Chris says, “Eh, they’ve been insufferable at every stage. The engagement is just an excuse.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason, Huang,” Caldara says, standing back and swinging the door further open. “Come on – you’re going to love this, Nico.”

He’s not wrong – Nicky’s face as they enter the lodge is exactly what Joe had been hoping for. He reaches back for Joe as his eyes run over the foyer, mouth slightly open, and Joe presses his smile against the back of Nicky’s hand.

“It’s like this boy hasn’t been in some of the grandest buildings across Europe,” Caldara says, shaking his head. “I’ll let you two wander. Don’t get lost now.”

He disappears through a side door, and Joe slides an arm around Nicky and walks them forwards. Each room is lined with knickknacks and art pieces; ornate bookshelves neatly stacked. Joe slows his pace so they can stay hand in hand as Nicky pokes around. He’ll never admit it, but Nicky’s rather nosy when he has the time. Joe’s just a sucker for indulging him. 

“Well well well, look who it is,” comes an all-too familiar voice as they enter the main lounge. Joe startles; he’d been too busy watching Nicky to notice anything else. Ayesha is sitting primly in one of the plush armchairs, which would look more threatening if she wasn’t doing Amira’s hair at the same time. Amira waves from her seat on the carpet, and Nicky smiles back.

“If I’m late, my excuse is that I had no idea I was due here,” he says.

“Oh, you mean Joe managed to keep this a secret?” Ayesha arches an eyebrow. “I’m amazed.”

“Well, no,” Nicky says, and Joe hides his face against Nicky’s shoulder. “I knew _something_ was up from the way he was fidgeting all week.”

“Oh honestly, Yusuf,” Ayesha says as Amira laughs. “Useless.”

“He knows I don’t like total surprises,” Nicky says, dropping a kiss on top of Joe’s head. “Now, where’s the third one of you? I should have heard her by now.”

“Oh,” Amira says, and gets an abnormally sly look on her face. “Zahra’s found a new friend, hasn’t she, Ayesha?”

“Oh yes indeed,” Ayesha replies, flashing them a grin that immediately has Joe tensing against Nicky’s side. “You’ll see. Keep going.”

They do, wandering through the ground floor and following their noses until they reach the kitchen. There, they find Mariam and Booker, who look like they’re running a military operation, speaking in rapid-fire French. Mariam lets out a gasp when she spots them, and promptly drops everything to throw her arms around Nicky. She’s developed an alarming habit of tearing up every time she sees him now, and Nicky nearly lifts her off the ground. Joe gives Booker a baleful stare, and only gets an eyeroll in response.

“It’s like I don’t even exist anymore,” Joe says when Nicky finally lets go.

“Don’t be a baby, Yusuf,” Mariam says, flicking flour at him when he pouts. “You’ve had a lifetime of my hugs. Nicky needs to catch up.”

Nicky looks rather pleased at that. He switches over to clap Booker on the shoulder, before leaning over to peer into the oven.

“Yeah, I’m thinking Joe only invited me to make food for him,” Booker says, and then nudges Nicky with his hip. “No pointers now. This roast is Mariam-approved.”

“I wasn’t going to give _pointers_ –” Nicky starts, but is interrupted by a figure sliding open the back door.

“Nicolò,” Andy says, and Joe sees Nicky’s spine straighten out of pure instinct. “You’re not allowed in here. Nile, come grab him.”

Nicky’s eyes widen. “What – Andromache, I thought you were – and Nile, weren’t you taking your family around Europe?”

“I mean, we _are_ still in Europe,” Nile says, sliding in around Andy. She pulls both Joe and Nicky in for a joint hug, strong arms dragging them in until all their cheeks are smushed together. “And we certainly weren’t going to turn this place down. Come see the back, Nicky, it’s insane.”

She grabs his hand and leads him onto the deck, Joe close behind. They’re elevated above the back garden, and she’s right – it’s even more impressive than the front, or the photos Joe had seen when he’d picked the place. Flowers of every colour bloom in their plots, and a stream flows around the side of the house, complete with a picturesque little bridge. The real wonder, however, is the lake, so impossibly blue and wide that it feels like they’re on the edge of the world.

Nicky turns his head in every direction, trying to take it all in. He laughs when he can’t seem to, and puts an arm around Nile, squeezing. “Unbelievable,” he says, looking back at Joe. “And for everyone’s schedules to align…”

“Funnily enough,” Nile says, leaning her head against his shoulder, “it’s almost like we all _want_ to spend time with you, Nicky. Joe not so much, but since you’re officially a package deal now…”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Joe says, jabbing at her behind Nicky’s back. “But yes, apparently all it takes to coordinate sixteen ridiculous schedules is a joint retirement and engagement. Who knew?”

Wooden tables are dotted below them on the lawn, shaded by giant umbrellas. More familiar faces turn to greet them as they make their way down: Ibrahim and Anipe are sitting with Caldara and Elisa, while Zahra is apparently too engrossed in conversation with Ty to say hello until Joe clears his throat pointedly.

“Oh, it’s you two,” she says as Nicky makes his way around the tables. “I wondered when you’d finally gatecrash us.”

Joe splutters. Ty stands to give Nicky a back-slapping hug before asking, “So, you been keeping up with the baseball this season?”

“No sports talk!” Joe and Nile say simultaneously, just as Nicky opens his mouth. “Magical _or_ muggle,” Nile adds, prodding at her brother. “And definitely not baseball. Out of all the muggle sports, that’s the one you get Nicky into?”

“Did someone say no sports talk?” Chris says, joining them on the grass, bags in hand. “Oh Joe, you should know better than that.”

Joe gives his father a rueful smile. “I tried implementing our _no Quidditch talk at the table_ during Chris’ rookie year,” he says, and everybody laughs. “It lasted – what, fifteen minutes?”

“It was a valiant effort, _caro_ ,” Nicky says, walking over to take his luggage from Chris. “Shall we put this away before we sit down? Which room, Joe?”

“Oh, no,” Joe says, grinning again. “One final surprise, _albi._ Follow me.”

He takes his own bag and leads Nicky away from the main lawn, across the grass and around the corner. Low hanging trees shield them from view of the main house, and there, nestled by the water’s edge, is a separate little cabin, cosy and contained. _Congratulations!_ appears in beautiful calligraphy across the French doors as they approach, which Joe pegs as Caitlin’s handywork; Chris has scrawled _finally!_ underneath it. When they make their way inside, the small living room is stacked with presents.

“Joe,” Nicky says, coming to a halt. “Joe, this is too much.”

“Really?” Joe says, dropping his bags to put his arms around Nicky again. Nicky leans back against him, and Joe peppers kisses along his jaw until Nicky smiles. “I thought you’d prefer this to a hundred of my relatives jumping out and screaming _surprise!_ at you.”

“Well, yes,” Nicky says, shuddering slightly. “But this – all of this, the house, the trip, everyone gathering and preparing everything, you…” He turns, eyes scanning Joe’s face as if there would be anything except love there. “No one should be this spoilt.”

“Lies.” Joe drops a kiss on Nicky’s nose. “You deserve to be a lot more spoilt than you are, Nicky. I’m just getting started.”

“Ah, but you’ve set such a high bar,” Nicky says, looping his arms around Joe’s neck. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take it.”

“You’ve always taken it really well in my opinion. Nearly as well as I do, actually,” Joe says with a straight face, and Nicky snorts and smacks at him. “What? I was just talking about spoiling each other, Nicky. I don’t know what _you_ were thinking about.”

“Oh, of course.” Nicky pulls back with a smirk. “In that case, let’s just unpack and re-join the group, hm?”

“That’s cruel,” Joe says, trailing after Nicky as he picks up their bags and finds the bedroom. It’s primarily occupied by a luxurious four-poster, and Joe eyes it as Nicky sets their things down. “It’s _our_ party, Nicky, we can do whatever we want.”

Nicky laughs. “I’d like to be able to look your family in the eye over dinner, thank you.” He neatly sidesteps Joe’s attempts to block him, pausing only to give him a consolatory peck on the cheek. It turns into a slow kiss against the doorframe when Joe grabs him, sweet despite the heat behind it, and Joe almost thinks he’s won until Nicky pulls back, face flushed. “ _Later_ ,” he insists, and Joe groans, letting his head fall against Nicky’s shoulder.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says. “But I’m going to have to jump in the lake.”

\--

Of course, Joe’s not really griping. It’s one of the best afternoons of his life, actually; time running syrupy-slow in the summer heat, everything feeling like a memory even as it happens. They do, in fact, go to the lake, and it’s so perfect it feels like a dream: suspended, unburdened, and several worlds away from anything resembling a responsibility. 

Nicky does a graceful swan dive off the end of the pier, while Joe and Chris divebomb after him, whooping. They both come up swearing. Nicky floats on his back, serene, until Joe tickles his foot and Nicky almost kicks him in the face.

“Woah, don’t you know how expensive that face is, Nicky?” Chris says, laughing. “He’s going to need it now he can’t use his actual body to make money.”

“Remember when Chris used to be scared of us, babe?” Joe says, wrapping an arm around Chris and dunking him thoroughly. “Those were the days.”

“Kat!” Chris yells as he grapples with Joe. “Save me!”

Caitlin, who has taken a seat at the end of the pier to dip her feet in, shares a long-suffering smile with Nicky from behind her oversized sunglasses. Nile and Zahra come wading in soon after, and Ty entertains them with some truly impressive backflips off the pier. Ayesha and Amira arrive carrying a crate of cold drinks, and sit chatting with Caitlin as everyone else swims lazily circles below them. Joe and Nicky swim further out so they can float together and steal kisses in peace – or in as much peace as there ever is with the al-Kaysani siblings around. With the addition of the Freemans and the kids, it’s a losing battle. Joe finds that he doesn’t mind all that much. Everyone is smiling.

They traipse back to the house when their stomachs start growling. It’s good timing – Caldara and Ibrahim are laying out appetisers, while Elisa shows Anipe photos of Francesca at her third birthday party. Nicky beelines over despite having seen them all before, and Caldara laughs, throwing an arm around his still-damp shoulders. “It’s hard to say who cried more when they first met,” he says to the gathered crowd. “Nico or Fra.”

“I just couldn’t believe Calda had helped make anything so perfect,” Nicky says, elbowing him. “Fra’s lucky that Elisa’s genes have obviously prevailed.”

“Nico spoils her rotten,” Caldara says conspiratorially. “And yet – refused to be godfather! What a slacker.”

“ _Calda_ ,” Nicky says, crossing his arms. “You _know_ why – it’s a serious role, I could _never –_ we talked about this –”

“It’s alright, _vecchio_ ,” Caldara says, tongue-in-cheek. “I’ll just tell her Uncle Nico didn’t _want_ to –”

Nicky turns to smack at him with both hands, switching over to a stream of irate Italian as Caldara cackles, and Joe thinks he catches a glimpse of how they must have been, when they’d first met at boarding school. He takes a seat next to the women and Elisa pulls his left hand forward to show Anipe his ring.

“Oh, that’s beautiful, Joe,” Anipe says, squeezing his hand. She still has her wedding band and engagement ring on her own finger, and Joe swallows down the lump in his throat to smile at her. He wonders where Booker keeps his. He marvels at the both of them.

They eat dinner as the afternoon fades into evening, the sky still lit but growing slowly softer. The look of quiet awe never leaves Nicky’s face as everyone interacts around him, boisterous and calm in turns. Joe knows exactly how he feels – there’s a particular type of joy that comes from bringing loved ones together, and finding that they all love each other, too. There are no grand speeches or further surprises, just Joe being teased mercilessly for leaving Nicky waiting on the balcony after he’d first proposed.

“He didn’t technically _propose_ ,” Joe says, brandishing a fork at all of his sisters. “He just _posited the idea_. _I_ had to get the ring to _actually_ propose.”

“I don’t know why you said yes after that behaviour, Nicky,” Ayesha says, ignoring Joe’s protests. “But since you’ve embraced your Stockholm Syndrome, have you two set an approximate time for the wedding?”

“Oh, not yet,” Nicky says. “We’re not in a rush.”

“Try telling that to Grandmama,” Ayesha says to Joe, who makes a face. “You know how much work this is going to be, Yusuf. You should think about it sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, give him a break,” Nicky says, standing as Booker comes out of the house with more dishes. “We’ve organised large-scale events before.”

“Wait,” Amira starts, forehead creasing. “Nicky…have you been to a Tunisian wedding before? Or anything similar?”

“Well, no,” Nicky says. “But I was a groomsman at Calda and Elisa’s wedding. And that was massive, wasn’t it, Calda?”

Nicky is busy shuffling dishes around as he speaks, and thus misses the way every al-Kaysani turns to look at Caldara, who is hiding behind his wine glass. Joe, who is sitting behind Nicky’s line of sight, makes a desperate slashing gesture across his throat.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Caldara says, trying not to laugh. “Really massive. Really.”

Mariam reaches over to squeeze Nicky’s hand as he sits back down. “No pressure on timing, sweetheart,” she says, even though she has already started sending Joe venue options and centrepiece ideas. “We’re just excited to officially welcome you to the family.”

Nicky’s eyes go dangerously shiny at that; Ibrahim takes pity on him and says, “Oh, is that what’s happening? I thought he was part of the family from the moment Yusuf wouldn’t shut up about him. Do you remember that first year…?”

All the al-Kaysani sisters groan dramatically, and Joe puts a hand over his eyes and says, “ _Baba_ , come _on_ ,” as if he’s ever been embarrassed about his Nicky-related gushing. He feels Nicky’s hand on his knee, warm under the table, and the ring against his skin when Joe slots their fingers together. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

They sit quietly for a while, letting everyone’s conversations ebb and flow around them. Chris and Ty are having an animated discussion about magical versus muggle engineering; they may as well be speaking two foreign languages, as far as Joe’s concerned. Elisa and Booker are commiserating about broadcast hosting and bullshit reporting, a glass of wine in her hand and a mug of tea in his. Andy and Anipe are talking too quietly for Joe to hear, while behind them, Nile and Zahra are fiddling around with the portable firepit. They both point their wands at the wood a little too enthusiastically, and the fire roars to life, sending Zahra toppling backwards with a shriek. Joe jumps up, reflexive, but Zahra only rolls over, laughing, as Nile calms the flames and turns to the group at large.

“So apparently Nicky didn’t grow up toasting marshmallows,” she says, and Nicky gives a wry shrug. Nile brandishes a campfire stick at him. “Get your ass over here, Genovese,” she says, and he laughs, standing up with Joe’s hand still in his. “Time to rectify that.”

\--

Much later, when far too many marshmallows have been consumed or set on fire, the party starts to wind down. They’ve got the place for a few days, so there’s no pressure to stay up. Mariam still hugs Nicky goodnight like she won’t see him again for years, and Joe gives his father an exasperated look.

“If you don’t want that to escalate,” Ibrahim mutters, “then you’d better get married soon, son.”

“Oh, not you too,” Joe says, and Ibrahim laughs before offering Mariam his arm. She only comes up to Ibrahim’s shoulder, and Joe has watched them walk like this for a lifetime: Mariam resting her head against her husband and Ibrahim leaning down to press a kiss against her hair. For a moment, Joe’s eyes blur, and he sees himself with Nicky, thirty years down the line. Would they look like that, moulded together by time and habit? Would their love grow the same way, sweetening as it settles into every inch of their lives? Joe has wanted what his parents have for so long, and yet, now that he has Nicky, he cannot compare them. All he knows is that being with Nicky gives him the same peace he has always felt at home; as warm and dependable as the sun rising in the east, even if some days also brought rainclouds or snowstorms. 

Caitlin calls it a night soon after, Chris following close behind. She turns to wait for him at the bottom of the steps and Nicky watches them go, Chris’ hand low on Caitlin’s back, her face tilted up towards him.

“Joe,” Nicky says slowly. Joe can almost see the cogs turning in his head. “How many rooms did we count in the lodge?”

“Enough,” Joe says innocently, and Nicky narrows his eyes at him. Joe smiles beatifically. “I didn’t want to make my sisters share again, so Chris graciously agreed to sleep on the couch. There’s certainly enough of them.”

“Mm,” Nicky says, still looking up at the house. “And will we find him on said couch tonight?”

“Oh, who knows,” Joe says, shrugging expansively, and Nicky tuts at him, unable to hide his smile.

“You’re a terrible meddler, Joe.”

“I am no such thing,” Joe says, even as Ayesha sighs and shares an eye-roll with Nicky. “They know what they want, Nicky. We’ll just have to see if Chris takes after you.”

“What?” Nicky asks drily. “Slow on the uptake?”

“No,” Joe says, taking Nicky’s hands in his. “Courageous enough to risk it.”

They stay until everyone’s said goodnight. Joe’s sisters all kiss Nicky soundly on the cheek and shove at Joe as they pass, which is balanced out by Caldara and Elisa both squeezing Joe’s shoulders and saying something to Nicky that has him choking on his drink, blushing furiously. The Freemans are next, Nile slinging an arm around both their shoulders.

“As Captain,” she says, “I’d like to say thank _fuck_ that you two managed to figure this out.”

“Nile,” Anipe chides, and Nile ducks her head and says, “Sorry, mom. But my point stands. Thank goodness.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Nicky says, “for being the first to talk to me about it. It…it really helped.”

“You’re welcome,” Nile says, and smiles at them both. “Thank you for being the best Team Dads.”

“Okay, no need to make me feel that old,” Joe says. “That’s Booker you’re thinking of.”

“Embrace it, al-Kaysani,” Booker calls from across the table. His smile turns soft when he looks at Nile. “And it doesn’t matter, really, when Nile’s better than we’ll ever be.”

“Here here,” Andy says, and drains her glass before standing. Booker leans over and says something to Nicky that has them both blinking rapidly, and Andy squeezes Joe’s shoulder and says, “You’ve done really fuckin’ well, al-Kaysani.”

“Thanks, boss,” he says, and she laughs, shaking her head.

“Not your boss anymore, Joe.”

Joe squeezes her arm. “You always will be, Andromache.”

\--

And then it’s just the two of them.

They take an age to make it back to their own cabin, because they keep stopping every couple of steps to kiss, gentle and unhurried. The night comes alive around them as their ears and eyes adjust, and Nicky feels cocooned by it all: the darkness softened by warm lights, the gentle exhale of the breeze through the trees, the stream running quietly over the rocks. Most of all, Joe, Joe, Joe – his fingers around Nicky’s face, his hands, his waist, warmth spreading through every point of contact. Nicky feels enveloped by him, by all their friends and their family, by this trip – and it should be overwhelming, but it’s not. Instead, Nicky only presses closer, hands tangling in Joe’s hair, walking them backwards until they’re kissing against the door of the cabin.

They break apart to settle in; Joe taking first shower so Nicky can acquaint himself with their space. When Nicky comes out, towelling his hair dry, he finds Joe on the patio couch, head tipped back. Out here, the night sky is alive with stars, and Nicky curls up next to him and looks up, too. There’s a slight hint of chill now, this late in the night, and Nicky flicks a hand to conjure some flames, just enough to illuminate their faces and warm them a little. Joe looks down, eyes dark in the firelight, before taking Nicky’s hands and kissing each of his fingers. Nicky remembers a time where he would have flinched back at that, so scared of himself and what he couldn’t control that he’d almost lost his mind. Now, he just leans in and kisses Joe again, hands cradling his face, warmth tingling in his fingertips.

When he sits back, Joe has such a beautiful expression on his face that Nicky can only stare. His memories of Joe’s face are so clear he could probably draw them, if he only had Joe’s abilities. Nicky strokes his thumbs over Joe’s cheekbones and remembers each moment, clear as yesterday: Joe’s eyes, blinking open after Nicky had hit him, injured and dazed and yet still light-hearted; the same eyes that had looked at Nicky so sincerely afterwards that he’d forgotten to be self-conscious. The wonder across Joe’s features, just before Nicky had risked their entire friendship and before Joe had kissed him in front of thousands. Joe’s face, twisting in pain until Nicky had found his way back to him; the lines around his eyes the first time they had laughed together again, after the accident. Finally – Joe with all the lights caught in his eyes, down on one knee, smile wide and adoring. Nicky feels like such a different person to the one Joe had first met, and he supposes Joe is, too. But through it all – they have been constants for each other, as surely as the moon follows the sun and the sea meets the shore.

Joe runs a hand through Nicky’s hair, gentle and grounding, and smiles like he knows everything Nicky is thinking. Nicky wants to say it to him, because Joe deserves to hear it, too, but he also knows that they have time, and time enough. So for now, he just presses his forehead against Joe’s and says, “ _Thank you_ , Yusuf,” into the scant space between them. “Thank you for bringing me here. For bringing us all here.”

“Of course,” Joe says, just as softly. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Having everyone together.”

“Yes,” Nicky says, and takes Joe’s hand in his. “It’s good to be with family.”

~*~

_End of Collection I_

_~*~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ………… 😊
> 
> As you all know by now, I have too many words in the ol’ noggin. So please bear with me for a moment.
> 
> Firstly, special thanks to the insane team that have gone above and beyond throughout this project: [ yon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlouais/pseuds/chlouais), the OG; [ beth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andtimeisnotonourside/pseuds/andtimeisnotonourside) and [weiwei](https://twitter.com/nosleepweiwei), the original brain trust; [polar](https://alaskandawn.tumblr.com/), who took me back to English school 😂; [ harryhotspur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryhotspur/pseuds/harryhotspur) and [kayden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope) for the vibe checks and constant sidefic feralling; and [mags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieMorality/pseuds/OldMagpie) for the god-tier attention to detail and constant semi-colon battles. Finally, shoutout to my resident Italian expert, [ yu_gin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yu_gin/pseuds/yu_gin). 💕
> 
> For a fic that was meant to be a two-part ‘break’ from my Actual WIP, this AU has really become the gift that keeps on giving for me. Reignited creativity aside, it has brought some of the most talented, generous and supportive human beans into my life. I am floored by the continuous enthusiasm for this project, and humbled by how much time, expertise, ideas, and unwavering support people have given me, be it through Ao3 comments, discord servers or dms. Thank you all so much. 
> 
> **Transformative works roundup as of 31 Jan 2021:**  
>  • [Fic, character and chapter moodboard edits by polar](https://alaskandawn.tumblr.com/tagged/quidditch-au)  
> • [ Art for the Nile, Nicky & Joe hot chocolate scene from Chapter II by yon](https://subjunctive-history.tumblr.com/post/641708553313370112/so-i-made-this-piece-of-a-favorite-scene-of-mine)  
> • [Comic panels for Joe and Nicky’s Big Damn Kiss in Chapter III by sleepy](https://antukini.tumblr.com/post/638248661556592641/joe-turns-to-nicky-eyes-wild-and-shining-usually)  
> • [ Art for a missing scene (Joe being an artistic dumbass) that would fit in Chapter III by kayden](https://a-ghost-named-k.tumblr.com/post/639814075031879680/just-a-painting-of-a-painting-from-a-story-that)  
> • Keep an eye out for related fics linked down below!
> 
> I have blanket permission for transformative works – please just link back to the fic and let me know so I can yell! I am also more than happy to discuss headcanons and provide any additional details. The collaboration I’ve had throughout this project has been one of the best things about it.
> 
>  **The plan going ahead:**  
>  I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to pull these off, but so much sidefic content has been developed to support mainfic that here’s what’s been brainstormed:  
>  _Collection II (pre and during mainfic)_  
>  • Nicky’s rookie year prequel & backstory  
> • Chris’ rookie year with Joe & Nicky  
>  _Collection III (post mainfic)_  
>  • Booker/family-centric sequel, with a side of Joe & Booker bro-shenanigans  
> • Nicky’s Big Year (ft Italy)  
> • Pre-wedding related sidefic  
> • Joe & Nicky centric sequel (I think my fingers will have fallen off by this point but at least I think I know what’s in their future! 😂)
> 
> If you’re interested in more of this verse, please subscribe to the series itself 🥂
> 
> And finally, thank _you_ for reading! Thank you for every kudos and comment, and especially to those who I now recognise from each update 😘 However you’ve ended up here, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself ❤
> 
> As always, all feedback welcome. I really hope this finale was worth it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As The Bells Ring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399671) by [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope)
  * [everywhere, at all times](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29398392) by [Flamingbluepanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flamingbluepanda/pseuds/Flamingbluepanda)




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